


Joey

by RosiePaw



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, F/M, M/M, Marsupials, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-17 17:43:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 44,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4675628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosiePaw/pseuds/RosiePaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John thought, why not?  Two-person marriages had been legally recognized in England since 1931, even though religious conservatives still grumbled their claims that every child deserved all its parents.  Mary was no religious conservative and neither was John.  Why shouldn’t he and Mary marry and then see where that took them?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic would not have been possible without the transcripts provided by the incomparable [Ariane deVere](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/), especially for series 3. She is a goddess at whose shrine we should all worship.

John Watson knows better than to lie to himself, and he would be lying if he said he hadn’t found Sherlock attractive from the first. But if Sherlock’s surprisingly gracious rejection of John’s initial advances hadn’t made things sufficiently clear, the withering scorn with which he greeted John’s subsequent string of megfriends would have settled the matter.

Practicing medicine in a war zone had reinforced John’s innately practical nature. If he couldn’t have Sherlock Holmes as a lover, he could still appreciate this remarkable man as a friend and partner in crime (very occasionally) and in solving crime (much more often).

It was fine. It was all fine, up until the day that Sherlock leapt from the roof of St Bart’s. After that the problem was not that life no longer seemed fine. The problem was that life no longer seemed _possible_.

Mary was light when John could see only bleak grey. She was laughter when John could hear only relentless silence no longer broken by a baritone voice.

Mary held his hand while he stood at Sherlock’s grave. Then she took him home, curled around him and let him hold her in turn, let him retain the illusion of his alpha pride even when they both knew who was comforting whom. He kissed her neck. He kissed her lips. Neither of them commented on the wet spots his tears left behind on her skin.

As time went by, there were fewer tears and more kisses. As time went by, John began to think that maybe it might be possible to live happily again. He began to return Mary’s laughter with smiles. One day he startled himself by laughing, which made _her_ smile. And he thought, why not? Two-person marriages had been legally recognized in England since 1931, even though religious conservatives still grumbled their claims that every child deserved all its parents. Mary was no religious conservative and neither was John. Why shouldn’t he and Mary marry and then see where that took them?

He bought a ring, asked Mary out to dinner and made reservations for them at the Landmark. He wore his best suit and combed both his hair and his mustache with care. (He still wasn’t sure about the mustache, but Mary seemed to like it.) He showed up a bit early, as it wouldn’t do to make her wait for him, and then had to deal with an overly solicitous waiter armed with a wine list. Finally Mary arrived, looking so lovely that John’s nerves got even worse. Still, he’d invaded Afghanistan, he could _do_ this, he was just about to – when the damn waiter returned. John turned and looked the fellow straight in the eye, ready to tell him where he could go.

It was Sherlock.

***

John wasn’t sure which was more amazing: Sherlock’s almost obsessive interest in arranging the details of the wedding or the fact that he and Mary actually seemed to get along. John watched them together, dark head and blonde bent over seating plans, and shook his head. Truth be told, he felt both relieved and a bit guilty. He himself didn’t give a damn how the serviettes were folded but Mary obviously did – and equally obviously, she needed someone who shared her interest. John would have expected her to draft one of her bridesmegs for this role, but Sherlock seemed to be filling it nicely.

“The oddest thing happened today at the clinic,” Mary mentioned one evening over spag bol. “A fellow I didn’t recognize dropped off a handwritten note from David.”

“David?” asked John, taking a sip of wine.

“One of the ushers. In the interest of full disclosure, he _was_ my alfriend for a couple of years, but that was ages ago. Now we’re just good friends who occasionally cry on each others’ shoulders.”

“And he had someone deliver a note rather than phoning or texting?”

“He seemed to think that Sherlock would be unable to intercept a note.”

John chuckled. “He’s underestimating... Hang on, what’s Sherlock got to do with this?”

“Apparently Sherlock interviewed him for the position of usher, deduced his past involvement with and continuing interest in me and issued a sort of personal injunction. Oh, take your head out of your hands, darling. David will get over it. Sherlock’s just being a bit over-protective. It’s rather cute.”

Over-protective. _Mycroft_ was over-protective, at least when he wasn’t trading off the details of his brother’s life to Moriarty. Mycroft claimed to care for his brother. Perhaps the Holmeses had no other way to express caring? Perhaps...

“D’you think that’s why he’s become so obsessed with the wedding details? He’s trying to protect us from having anything go wrong?”

“Protect _us_?” Mary wrinkled her nose.

“Yes, of course. And that’s not a bad thing. At least we can be sure that no one in the wedding party will have a mysterious criminal past.”

Mary didn’t find the joke as funny as John had hoped. “Of course. Speaking of the wedding party, are you sure about not inviting your sister? Especially where all your parents are deceased...”

John smiled and took her hand across the table. “We’re both in the same boat there, aren’t we? No family to speak of, lots of friends. Harry and a free bar are a bad combination.”

Mary smiled back. “At least think about it, all right? I don’t want you to feel alone.”

“Never. _You’ll_ be there,” John assured her. And so would Sherlock. His beloved and his best friend.

***

The days leading up to the wedding seemed both to drag and to fly by. Sherlock continued to obsess about the wedding to the point where John had to take him and “run” him, which led to them saving a young guard’s life at Wellington Barracks. Then Sherlock returned the favour by taking John on a uniquely awful stag night, including not only the traditional over-consumption of alcohol and drunken games but also a botched crime scene, a gaol cell and a rescue by an over-amused and over-loud Lestrade.

The wedding day itself arrived. They made it through the ceremony without mishap, after which John found himself standing between Mary and Sherlock on receiving line. Ah, so _this_ was David! John clasped his hand firmly and made deliberate, prolonged alpha-to-alpha eye contact. David dropped his eyes and scurried off as soon as John released him. So much for David.

More puzzling was the young pageboy’s fervent demonstration of both an attachment to Sherlock and an interest in – if John heard correctly – beheadings. Fortunately, the boy’s mother didn’t seem to hear as clearly as John.

Finally they made it inside the reception hall. Sherlock’s best man’s speech got off to an awkward start and looked to be following the same doomed path as his stag-night plans. In the end, however, Sherlock solved two cases, prevented James Sholto’s death and ensured the arrest of a two-time attempted murderer.

Later on, John would remember how he’d felt, running up the staircase with Sherlock and Mary. Underneath the doctor’s drive to avoid a preventable death and John’s personal horror that by inviting James to his wedding, he had delivered his commander into the murderer’s hands, the strongest emotion he felt was... joy. A bit not good, but there it was. This was what they _did_ , he and Sherlock. They thwarted criminals. They cheated death and not always but often enough, they saved lives. And now Mary ran with them, omega to their alpha and beta, as intent as they were on their shared purpose.

It was glorious.

It was with this glorious feeling still thrumming through this mind that John heard Sherlock give his final speech of the evening.

“Today we saw two people make vows. I’ve never made a vow in my life, and after tonight I never will again. So, here in front of you all, my first and last vow. Mary and John: whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will _always_ be there, _always_ , for _both_ of you.”

Christ. It was as good as a marriage vow – except that it ran only one way, from Sherlock to John and Mary. It was as if Sherlock thought that he had no right to expect or even ask anything from them in return. Then and there, John made a quiet vow of his own. Somehow, he’d make his friend understand just how wrong he was.

Sherlock finished his speech and more or less ordered everyone to dance. As the guests happily moved off in threes and twos to comply, John placed one arm around Mary’s shoulders and held the other out to Sherlock. “Come dance with us,” he invited, looking into Sherlock’s eyes and smiling.

But he saw Sherlock freeze, just for a moment, and underneath his arm Mary stiffened ever so slightly.

“It’s your wedding day, John,” said Sherlock softly. “Dance with your wife.”

John would have argued, but Mary wrapped both arms around him. “Come on, husband, let’s go.”

So John went. There would be other dances, other times.

He thought Sherlock might dance with Mary’s meg-of-honour – Jenny? No, Janine. She and Sherlock had seemed to be getting along, earlier. But when John looked around after a bit, he saw Janine dancing with an alpha with light brown hair and glasses, no third partner in sight. He searched the crowd further and spotted Molly and Tom dancing with Mrs Hudson – who had some astonishing moves for an omega her age – but there was no sign of Sherlock.

Sherlock remained absent at breakfast the next morning, although Mrs Hudson seemed to have acquired an extra overnight bag. John never did learn how and when Sherlock made it back to London.

***

With her omegologist’s assistance, Mary had used suppressants to adjust her cycles so that her heat began two days after the wedding. The week that followed was nothing short of amazing. Sure, they’d had sex before, but by unspoken agreement, they’d saved the experience of sharing a heat. John felt drunk on Mary’s sweet/tart scent, on the taste of her in his mouth and the feel of her on his skin. He slid into her warmth and she was more than ready, she was _greedy_ for him, grabbing him, clasping onto him in every way she could. And the _noises_ she made, the noises she made _him_ make... Reality condensed down to two indisputable facts: the pleasure she gave him and the pleasure he strove to give her.

They used contraceptives, of course, as they obviously weren’t ready for a child with just the two of them. Still, one morning three weeks after the end of Mary’s heat, John noticed a discarded home pregnancy test in the bathroom bin. Mary was apparently taking no chances. John thought it might be time for the discussion he’d been meaning to have.

He broached the topic that night as they lay in bed, warm and sated, their lovemaking less frenzied but all the more tender outside of heat.

“You like Sherlock, don’t you, pet?”

Mary looked up from where she’d been nuzzling John’s sweaty neck. “Of course I do. He’s not only my husband’s best friend, he’s also intelligent and never dull, plus he’s easy on the eyes. Mind, he hasn’t the first idea as to how human beings tick emotionally, but no one’s perfect.”

“Mmmm, sometimes I think you might be.”

“Not even me, darling. What’s Sherlock gone and done now?”

John pulled away slightly, startled. “Sorry? What makes you think he’s...”

Mary chuckled and drew him back to her. “I’m having you on. But really, why are you bringing up Sherlock in this particular setting?”

“You heard him, at our wedding, with that vow of his. He’s practically married us already. Maybe not, well, in a sexual way or even a romantic way, but as _family_. At our ages, it’s not too soon to start thinking of children, and I know you’ve been worried about being caught off-guard.”

“Damn, you saw the test stick in the bin, didn’t you? I’d meant to cover that up.”

“Not from me, Mary. Never hide things like that from me, okay? I love you, but we need to be open with each other. And whomever we chose, we’d need to be open with them as well, and Sherlock...”

But Mary was shaking her head. “Oh, John, I’m sorry. It’s so clear to me, I thought you knew as well.”

“Knew what?”

“Sherlock’s not interested in us that way. He cares for you...”

“Us,” said John firmly.

“Us. He’s protective, he promised he’d always be there for us. But he’s not at all interested the way you’re suggesting.”

“How do you _know_ that?”

“Omega instinct? It’s just _clear_ to me... Do you always see things that are clear to Sherlock?”

“Not until he explains them.”

“And after that?”

“Not always even after that,” John admitted.

Mary nodded. “Besides, can you see Sherlock with children?”

“I dunno. He was all right with our page boy – Andrew?”

“Archie. And he didn’t have to take Archie with him everywhere he went for several months.”

“Look...”

“Including to crime scenes.”

John paused a moment, because Mary certainly had a point there. But. Still. _Sherlock_. “Look, we could at least _ask_ him...”

“And make him so incredibly uncomfortable that he may never feel easy around us again? You’ve said it yourself. The whole thing just isn’t his area.” She kissed his nose. “I’m sorry, darling. You’ve obviously been thinking about this for a while. I wish I’d known. Maybe _you_ should be more open with _me_.”

John chuckled ruefully and returned the kiss, but to her lips. “You’re right.”

“ _I’ve_ been thinking...”

“Hmmm?”

“Is Molly strictly bent? Or might she be interested in swerving? It was fairly clear that she and Tom weren’t going to last long.”

“As bent as my sister, I’m afraid. The only time I’ve known her to show interest in anyone on the alpha/omega spectrum, it was an alpha disguising himself with beta body wash.”

“Oh, dear. Surely he realized that wouldn’t withstand, well, an intimate encounter.”

“It really had nothing to do with Molly at all, I’m afraid. He turned out to be a criminal mastermind interested in trying to get close to Sherlock.”

“Really. Any chance of him trying that again?” asked Mary.

John held her a bit more closely for reassurance. “Absolutely none. Never mind him, love. My point is that aside from that fluke, Molly, well, for the longest time she had a desperate crush on Sherlock.”

“Which she’s never really gotten over, hence Tom. Let’s see, whom do I know who’s as little like Sherlock as possible? Short, blond...”

“Mary,” warned John.

“And beta?” Mary finished with a grin. “That’s the best way to find your own match, didn’t you know? Look for one for someone else.”

“And whose match were you looking for when you met me, hmmm?”

“No one’s at all. That was just sheer bloody luck. Ahhh, John, there, yes... Are you trying to start a second round?”

“Depends, love. How hard would I have to try?”

***

John kept in touch with Sherlock after the wedding, of course. Not every day but at least once a week. Perhaps every two weeks. Or so. Certainly it hadn’t been longer than a month – _one_ bloody month – the morning he had to drag Sherlock out of a crack house. John was both relieved and disappointed when Molly hauled off and slapped Sherlock – three times. Sherlock certainly deserved it and god knows John _wanted_ to hit him, but he’d almost broken the man’s nose the night Sherlock returned from the dead. It was time for someone else to have a go, and manhandling corpses had obviously done nice things for Molly’s upper body strength.

Somehow John ended up in a cab with Sherlock heading back to Baker Street while Mary drove Isaac Whitney and Bill Wiggins home, although whether or not Wiggins actually had a home was a good question. Then once they arrived at Baker Street, Mycroft and his minions were there and John’s chair wasn’t.

Eventually Mycroft got rid of the minions and John got rid of Mycroft before Sherlock inflicted any more physical damage on his brother. John couldn’t say that he himself was sorry to see Mycroft in pain.

Left alone, Sherlock sniffed himself and looked disgusted. “I have a meeting in three hours. I need a bath.”

“With a client?”

“No, alone.”

“I meant the meeting, you berk.”

“Oh, that.”

“That. Look, Sherlock, you said the drugs were for a case involving this Magnussen fellow. Is this client part of the same case? Because Mycroft seemed to think you were getting in over your head.”

“Mycroft is overdramatizing in an attempt to justify his meddling. And my meeting concerns a case of simple blackmail. There’s nothing more disgustingly tawdry. Now unless you plan on joining me in the bath?”

John jumped backwards as Sherlock shut the door. He glanced at the bedroom door that Sherlock had been so adamant about keeping closed. Tempting, that, but a bit not good. John had just started to turn away – only to jump again when the bedroom door opened, revealing...

“Janine?”

It was indeed Janine, wearing a shirt but apparently little else. Janine, calling Mycroft “Mike” and Sherlock “Sherl”, telling John where to find the coffee in the flat he’d once lived in. Janine, slipping into the bathroom to join Sherlock and obviously quite welcome.

John had not only made the coffee but drunk a mug of it by the time Sherlock exited the bathroom, blowing a kiss back inside before he shut the door carefully. With only a towel wrapped loosely around his midriff, he gave John a sheepish grin as he slid sideways into the bedroom. John was on his second mug by the time Sherlock reappeared again, this time wearing black trousers and a white shirt.

“So,” said John, “You have a megfriend?”

“Problem?”

“No, no, not at all. It’s just...”

John was cut off by a knock at the door, which Sherlock seemed unusually prompt about answering. The alpha who entered – nice jacket, classy jeans, brown hair, glasses – looked vaguely familiar.

“Dexter, you know John. John, this is Dexter. He was at your wedding.”

“I’m sorry,” John offered as they shook hands, “I don’t remember...”

“You had other things on your mind,” Dexter returned shyly, “Plus I’m not very memorable.”

“I thought we’d made progress on disabusing you of that notion.” Sherlock’s voice oozed out in its lowest register as he stepped up to Dexter, placed his hands on the alpha’s shoulders and drew him in for a kiss. The first kiss was almost chaste. The second, far less so. By the third, Dexter had gotten up the nerve to place both hands around Sherlock’s waist – and then reach down a bit to squeeze Sherlock’s absurdly luxurious bum.

John didn’t want to look at them, couldn’t look away _from_ them, from the way Sherlock raised his chin to put his long neck at the perfect level for Dexter’s lips.

“Oooh, can I play too?”

Christ, John was so distracted he hadn’t heard Janine leave the bathroom, let alone enter and exit the bedroom. She must have, though, for she was now wearing a flowered dress and white jumper.

The alpha and beta separated slightly to let her join them, then moved back in close as all three of them traded kisses, caresses, even nips at each other’s necks. If John could have moved from the spot, he would have slipped into the bathroom for a cold shower.

“No marks, you two!” warned Janine, “I’ve got to work!”

She stepped back slightly but then snuggled in against Sherlock’s side. Dexter, on Sherlock’s other side, wrapped a proprietary arm around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock nipped Dexter’s earlobe, nuzzled Janine’s hair and smiled happily. It was... bizarre. Hot. Bizarrely hot.

John cleared his throat and attempted conversation. “So, ah, you three are... in a relationship?”

Sherlock’s smile widened. “Deduced that, have you?”

Janine elbowed him. “Be nice, Sherl! He grinned at her as she continued, “John, I haven’t told Mary about this. I kind of wanted to surprise her.”

“Yeah, you probably will.”

“But we should have you two over for dinner really soon!” Sherlock and Dexter nodded in support of this idea. “My place, though – no scuzz-dumps!

Sherlock laughed, while Dexter mimed mock-offense, grinning all the while.

God, thought John, dinner? With all three of them?

“Great, yeah!” he blurted. “ _Dinner_! Yeah.”

God help him.

Dexter glanced at his watch. “Uh, Janine?”

“Oops! I have to dash. Dexter’s driving me to work.”  

“And I promised I’d get you there on time,” sighed Dexter, detaching himself from Sherlock with obvious reluctance and holding the door for Janine.

“A gentleman always keeps his promises,” agreed Sherlock lightly. “Have a lovely day, both of you. And call me later.”

“Solve us a crime, Sherlock Holmes,” admonished Janine as she bestowed one last kiss on his nose and stepped out the door. Sherlock blew Dexter a kiss of his own, making the alpha blush as he closed the door behind himself and Janine.

“So,” said John, still not quite believing what he’d seen. “You have, ah...”

“A very boring meeting coming up.”

“Yes, right, but I meant...”

“John, I sincerely doubt that your wife intended to start her day with a visit to a crack house, followed by a spot of impromptu nursing at St Bart’s. Perhaps you ought to head home and attend to her well-being.”

John’s embarrassed interest in Sherlock’s love life evaporated, to be replaced by the beginnings of anger.

“You’re kicking me out.”

“I’m suggesting that you leave.”

“You don’t want me here.”

Sherlock glanced pointedly at the empty spot where John’s chair had once stood and raised an eloquent eyebrow.

Anger stiffened John’s back and shoulders. “Right. Well. Right, then.” He headed towards the door, then turned on the threshold. “I’ll be in touch. If I remember to.”

He clattered down the stairs and slammed the front door behind him, not caring what Mrs Hudson might think. Let her ask Sherlock Fucking Holmes what had happened.

John was a good ways down the block when something prompted him to look back. A large luxury vehicle had drawn up in front of 221B. Four men exited. Three wore dark suits. The fourth, a tall, fair-haired man, wore a light grey suit and an air of disdainful indifference.

Sherlock’s client had arrived early, it seemed. With three hired security guards, if John was any judge. He almost turned back, but then thought better of it. Mycroft travelled with security, and Sherlock had dealt with Mycroft easily enough. Let him try his arm-twisting trick on the guards – or the client. If someone broke Sherlock’s arrogant nose, John wouldn’t be sorry to hear it.  

When John got home, he discovered a note from Mary saying she’d gone over to Kate Whitney’s. John spent the better part of the afternoon catching up on medical journals. When Mary reappeared, it was only to remind John that she’d told him ages ago that she had some sort of megs’ night out scheduled with people named Becca and Carol. She offered to cancel. He insisted she go, rather wishing that she’d cancel anyway and then feeling put out when she took him at his word and went.

John tried phoning Greg to see if he might be interested in going out to a pub, but Greg was working, so John figured he’d get take-away and watch some crap telly. How long had it been since he’d had take-away? Mary was always going on about “eating healthy” and apparently there was no such thing as healthy take-away. As a doctor, John was theoretically in favour of health. In practice, he was looking forward to a bit of a take-away splurge. So what if he’d gained four pounds? ( _Not_ seven, thank you very much.) He’d do a few extra miles on his bike tomorrow.

Somehow, though, the Chinese he’d ordered with such anticipation didn’t taste the same as he remembered it. This had nothing to do with the fact that no one was trying to steal all the cashews in his cashew chicken and everything to do with... With something. He wasn’t sure what. Both the food and the telly seemed equally flat. He finally gave up on them, packing the leftovers away in the refrigerator. Let Mary see them and scold him. It was her fault for not being here. Or, no, not her _fault_ exactly, that wasn’t fair, but whatever it was, it was _hers_.

Not Sherlock’s. This curious flatness had nothing to do with Sherlock Holmes and his boring, security-mad client at all. John had his own life, and so did Sherlock. A life which included his new megfriend and alfriend. Would Sherlock want John to be his best man? He wouldn’t want Mycroft, certainly.

Lestrade, maybe. That would be fine. John was fine with that. It was all fine.

Why were all these journal articles so dull? John could hardly keep his attention on them.

He was thinking of turning in when his phone rang.

“John, it’s Greg Lestrade. Sherlock’s been shot. You need to get to the hospital.”

“Before he pisses off the entire staff?” John asked sarcastically.

A pause on the phone. Then: “Someone tried to shoot him in the heart and barely missed. The doctors don’t know if he’ll make it, John.”


	2. Chapter 2

Everything after Lestrade’s call was a bit of a blur. Somehow John found himself sitting in an anonymous waiting room with no clear idea as to how long he’d been there. He’d been assured that Mr Holmes’ next of kin had authorized John to receive all information available 

There was no information available. Sherlock was still in the OR.

Eventually Lestrade showed up bearing two cups of coffee, one of which he gave to John. It was horrible coffee, but it was hot and caffeinated. John drank it with gratitude.

“Any news?” asked Lestrade.

“No.” And then, on a thought, “Not unless you have some yourself.”

Lestrade sighed. “Technically, it’s a police investigation and I shouldn’t be telling you anything. Unless... When’s the last time you saw Sherlock?”

“This morning. He was...” shooting up in a crack house, bit not good, that. “He was at 221B when I dropped by.”

“You dropped by.”

“Well, I hadn’t seen him for at least a month, I thought I’d drop by. People do that.”

“They do. Was he high? No, don’t look at me like that. It’s just, there was some stuff in the papers.”

“There’s lots of stuff in the papers. As far as I could tell, he was behaving fairly normally.”

“You mean normally for Sherlock, of course. Was he working on a case?”

“Yes, at least two. That’s probably why he wasn’t high.”

“Did he mention any specific names?”

“What’s this about, Greg?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“But you want _me_ to tell you things. I’ll make you a deal.”

“John.”

“Greg.”

Lestrade sighed again. “All right. You tell me what you know and I’ll tell you what I know. There’s little enough of it at point and I’ve got the horrible feeling that the only man who might be able to sort it out for us is laying on an operating table right now.”

“Sherlock had a meeting with a client this morning. He described it as involving ‘simple blackmail.’ But he’s also working on something that has to do with Charles Augustus Magnussen. And Mycroft seemed to think that Magnussen was out of Sherlock’s league.”

“Mycroft – Sherlock’s brother? He was there too?”

“For a bit. He tried to warn Sherlock off the Magnussen case.”

“Damn. That would have only made Sherlock more determined to pursue it. What about the other case? What happened during the meeting?”

“Dunno. Sherlock threw me out.”

“He what?”

“Not physically. He ordered me to go and then pissed me off enough that I went.”

“Huh. Was he hiding the client from you or you from the client?” Lestrade asked shrewdly.

“Oh, hell, I never thought of that.”

“Think of it now – and let me know if you remember anything more.”

“These _is_ more thing,” said John. He described the luxury vehicle and the four men who’d gotten out.

Lestrade swore. “Magnussen is 6’ 4”, light build, blond. What time was this?”

“About 10:30, 10:40? Sherlock had said that the meeting was at eleven, but I remember thinking that the client had shown up early.”

“And then?”

“And then I went home and stayed there. You remember I called you about going out.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Your turn, Greg.”

“All right, you never heard this and certainly not from me. Someone called 999 this evening from the phone in Magnussen’s flat at the CAM Global News Building. The operator said it was a woman with a strong accent, possibly Australian. She reported that two people had been shot and needed immediate medical attention, then hung up. When the paramedics arrived, they found Sherlock, Magnussen and two more people, possibly Magnussen’s PA and a security guard. Magnussen had been shot through the forehead. Sherlock was lying on the floor bleeding out.”

“The PA and the guard weren’t in the flat, they were in the office below. Both had received blows to the head. The guard was dead, the PA unconscious. I’m here to try and get a statement from her before the hospital releases her. The guard was an ex-con with links to white supremacist groups, so we’re following up on those.”

“Weapon?”

“None found on the scene. We should be able to extract one bullet from Magnussen’s skull and the other from, well, Sherlock.”

“Not going to let him walk off with evidence this time?” John put his hand to his mouth a second after he heard his own words. “Sorry.”

“Trust me, mate, I’d give anything if to see him get up and walk away from this. He could even keep the bloody... the damn evidence.”

“Dr Watson?” They both turned to look at the nurse. “The surgeon will see you now.”

“Good luck,” said Lestrade as John stood up.

“Good luck with the PA. And ta for the coffee and, well, everything.”

The surgeon looked tired and her scrubs were stained, but what John noticed first was that she lacked the numb, defeated look of a doctor who’s had a patient die under their hands. He knew exactly what that felt like. This woman was not feeling it. John began to feel just slightly hopeful for the first time since he’d got Lestrade’s call.

“John Watson? Virginia Dixon. Uh, are you in family practice?”

“Currently. Before that I was a trauma surgeon in the RAMC.”

Dixon brightened a little. “That makes this easier. I’ll give you a summary now and make sure you get a copy of the full surgical report, okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sounds good. So, Sherlock’s alive.”

“Oh, hell, I was supposed to tell you that first, wasn’t I?” Her obvious dismay made John laugh and then he couldn’t stop laughing and then he was sitting down and someone had got him some more horrible coffee.

“Better now?” asked Dixon. “I’m not very good at this part.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m, ah, used to it. Or should be. Sorry I broke down. You were saying?”

She took a breath. “Mr Holmes is most definitely alive. He’s not out of the woods yet, but there’s no reason he shouldn’t pull through. I just wish I knew how he did it. He suffered a gunshot wound to the chest in precisely the right spot.”

“ _Is_ there a ‘right spot’ for a gunshot wound to the chest?”

“Less than half a centimetre off in any direction and he would have been dead. Even so, he’s only alive because he happened to fall backwards instead of forwards and because he didn’t go into shock. I have no idea why he didn’t. We thought... I’ll be honest.”

“Please.”

“We thought he had died on the table. He’d flatlined. We were getting ready to sign off. And then... His heart monitor blipped. And did it again and then again and we got back to work and were able to stabilize him. Dr Watson, I’m a doctor and a scientist. I don’t believe in miracles, but what happened in that operating room...”

She trailed off, shaking her head.

John felt a bit sorry for her, but mostly he felt warm all over and somehow lighter. “I’ve seen some strange things, practicing combat medicine,” he said gently. “I’ve seen some even stranger ones since then. I don’t believe in miracles either. I just believe in Sherlock Holmes.”

She stared at him and then shrugged, obviously having reached her weirdness quota for the day. “He’s the recovery area for monitoring, then he’ll be moved to a private room. You can see him – _briefly_ , mind you – but I can’t guarantee he’ll be able to speak or understand you. We had to adjust his medications for his, ah, past history.”

“I understand.”

Sherlock was almost as white as the sheets he lay on and wreathed in tubes and catheters. Monitors blinked around him; pumps ticked.

“Sherlock? It’s John,” said John softly.

Sherlock stared at him hazily.

“Can you hear me, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s mouth moved as if trying to shape a word.

“Come on, Sherlock. It’s John. I’m right here. Can you speak?”

Sherlock frowned a little. He seemed to be making an effort. John leaned closer.

“Mmmm...”

“Magnussen? He’s dead, Sherlock.”

But Sherlock’s frown deepened and he tried again.

“Mmmm...   Mmmm... _Mary_.”

Oh, hell. Mary. John had completely forgotten to call her and let her know what had happened and where he was.

John called Mary while the nurses were getting Sherlock settled in his room. They’d already offered John a cot in case he wanted to spend what remained of the night, and Mary agreed with him that he should.

She showed up first thing the next morning just after Sherlock had woken up again, this time a bit more coherently. John met her on the landing near the foyer.

“Sherlock’s awake, his vitals are stable, he’s going to make it. But you, _Mrs_ Morstan, are in big trouble.”

Mary looked puzzled.

“His first word when he woke up?”

She shook her head.

“Mary!”

Mary started to giggle, and John’s laughter joined hers as he hugged her tight.

They went back up to Sherlock’s room, where John left Sherlock and Mary to chat while he tracked down a nurse for more information as to when he could visit and what he could and could not bring Sherlock during his hospital stay. The “could” list was largely absent of anything Sherlock might actually want. The “could not” list omitted several items that would certainly have been on it if the nurse had known more about her patient.

John and Mary were walking back to their car when John remembered something else.

“Look, Mary, you need to call Janine.”

“Janine. Janine _Hawkins_? My bridesmeg Janine?”

“Yeah, well, she and Sherlock have... become involved.”

“Janine. With Sherlock.” Mary sounded a bit blank.

“And an alpha who was at wedding – Dexter?”

“Oh, Dexter! The geeky alpha Janine was dancing with? And Sherlock? Oh, that minx!” Mary started to laugh, then broke off. “Oh god, they don’t know yet, do they?”

“No. I could call them, but I thought...”

“You’re right. No offense, darling, but you don’t always say the right sort of thing. I’ll take care of it.”

And because Mary had said she’d take care of it and because John trusted her, he forgot all about the matter.

Until the headlines hit the tabloids.

“LOVE NEST AT BAKER STREET.”

“MURDER-SOLVING TEC A BETA TO DIE FOR.”

“7 TIMES A NIGHT – EACH.”

“HE MADE US BOTH WEAR THE HAT.”

“Hell hath no fury...” murmured Mary as she flipped through a newspaper someone had left at the clinic.

“But she wasn’t,” said John. “Scorned, I mean. He was quite, ah, enthusiastic.”

Mary looked at him, eyes dancing, and John felt his face warm. “Or at least he looked that way from the other side of the room.”

She giggled, shook her head and returned to the paper. “All the quotes are from her, none from Dexter... Oh, dear.”

She held it up to show John a blurry profile shot of Dexter, obviously caught trying to escape the photographer. “He’s not the type to welcome this sort of attention. Janine’s going to lose him over this. Whatever she was paid, I hope it was worth it.”

“Enough to buy a cottage in Sussex,” said Lestrade, coming in through the door behind them. “Donovan’s heading down there as we speak to ask her some more questions. Up until now we’ve been assuming that Sherlock was in Magnussen’s office for a meeting, but if Ms Hawkins is this pissed off at him, that puts a different face on it.”

“What did she say about Sherlock in her statement?” asked John.

Lestrade glanced at Mary. “Actually, Sherlock’s why I’m here. I have to ask him some more questions as well. I was wondering if you’d come with me, John?”

“It’s already been proven that he’ll lie to me as easily as to you.” John tried to keep his voice light but knew he failed.

“I hear you, mate. But at least between the two of us we have a better chance of catching him out, right? Will you come?”

John was settled into the passenger seat of Lestrade’s car, watching the other man navigate the London traffic, when Lestrade said almost casually, “Look, John, Mary is your wife. I get that. I’ve got two spouses of my own. But police business doesn’t go home, do you understand?”

“Neither does the army’s business,” John replied tersely.

“Good. Ms Hawkins didn’t say anything about Sherlock in her statement. She said she was working late, someone hit her from behind and the next thing she knew she was waking up in the hospital. _Sherlock_ didn’t mention her either. He talked a lot about a meeting, but he was pretty well drugged up. You told me he had a meeting that morning as well and that was almost certainly with Magnussen. When I replayed the recording of Sherlock’s statement, it wasn’t clear whether he was talking about one meeting or two, let alone which one he was talking about at any given moment.”

“I’m not sure you’re going to get much more out of him,” warned John. “Any time I’ve been to see him, he’s been more or less babbling.”

“Shit, he’s going to have to go through withdrawal again when this is over, isn’t he?” Lestrade said mournfully. “It wasn’t any fun the first two times.”     

_Two_ times? But they’d arrived at the hospital and were heading for Sherlock’s room. John opened the door to discover...

An empty bed. An unevenly raised blind. And an open window.    

Lestrade was already barking orders into his phone as they left the hospital. “He’s got three known bolt holes: Parliament Hill, Camden Lock and Dagmar Court.”

John called Mrs Hudson on the unlikely chance that Sherlock turned up at Baker Street. Then he tried calling Mycroft but failed to get past Anthea.

“Damn the cold bastard! Mycroft told Sherlock that if Sherlock went against Magnussen, he’d be going against Mycroft as well. I just didn’t think he’d... Fucking Holmeses!”

“Give me Mycroft’s number,” Lestrade offered promptly. “I’ve got a badge _and_ a murder investigation in which his younger brother is a material witness.”

John looked him in the eye. “You’ve also got a job. At the moment.”

“This won’t be the first time my job’s been on the line because of Sherlock Holmes, remember? The last time worked out pretty well in the end. Worst comes to worst, Deanna and Sean earn enough to support the whole family.”

“Deanna and Sean?”

“My spouses. She’s an investment banker, he’s a PE instructor. Look, John, I’ve got people out looking. There’s nothing else you can do tonight, so go home and get some sleep. I’ll call you the moment anything turns up.”

Lestrade was right. John knew he was right, but he hated to leave. He called Mary, gave her a brief explanation of what had happened and asked her to come pick him up.

He lay awake in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, trying to work it out. How does one find Sherlock Holmes in London?

Mary snuggled against his side, kissed his ear. “Let it go for tonight, love. You need to sleep if you’re going to be good for anything tomorrow.”

She nuzzled at his neck, then nipped him unexpectedly. John jumped. “Mary, I don’t think...”

“ _I_ think you need to relax. And I think I can help you do that, mmmm?” She kissed his neck again and began to stroke his chest. He hadn’t bothered with a vest or pyjama shirt. Her hands brushed his nipples as if by accident. They both knew that wasn’t so.

“Mary...”

“Let me do this for you, John.”

The errant hand trailed lower, following the centreline of his torso as she kissed his neck, his check, his ear and finally his waiting lips. She rolled over a bit further, her soft weight partly on top of him as she took his cock in hand. He was kissing her back by now, their tongues sliding together, his arms around her as she began to stroke and squeeze. His mind still ran in circles around the question of Sherlock’s whereabouts, but his body – and a good portion of his heart – responded to the warm and generous woman in his arms.

“What did I do to deserve you?” he murmured.

“You don’t deserve me,” she retorted. “I’m making allowances.” And then she giggled.

His answering laughter was caught off abruptly when she sealed her lips around his cock.

This wasn’t Mary’s favourite thing to do in bed, but she was good at it. John whimpered slightly when she finally lifted her head again, distracted from his thoughts by a degree of arousal that verged on pain.

“Shhhh, let me take care of you, love.”

Mary sat upright astride him, raised and then lowered herself and proceeded to ride John into oblivion. He yelled when he came, an incoherent cry. The last thing he remembered before he passed out was her face above him, smiling.

***

John met with Lestrade at 221B the next day. Mycroft had contributed the location of two more boltholes – the blind greenhouse in Kew Gardens and the leaning tomb in Hampstead Cemetery – but nothing had panned out so far. Mrs Hudson had suggested looking behind the clock face of Big Ben and become a big indignant when John refused to take this seriously.

“What about that pathologist? At St Bart’s?” proposed Lestrade.

“Molly Hooper? She and Sherlock aren’t, ah, on the best of terms at the moment.”

“What does that mean?”

“They had a tiff and she slapped him across the face. Three times.”

“Ouch.” Lestrade lapsed into glum silence and started to wander idly about the flat, poking at things, reminding John of...

“Anderson. He was here, with a friend, apparently on Mycroft’s orders. Doesn’t he have some sort of obsession with Sherlock?”

“Yeah, you might call it that.”

“To the point where he might have tried to follow Sherlock around at one time or another?” John persisted.

“You mean stalked him. Look, John, do you honestly see Sherlock Holmes letting himself by stalked by the likes of Anderson? Sherlock would either tell him off or – more likely – set him on a false trail to, I dunno. Big Ben, maybe.”

“Gregory Lestrade, Sherlock was _not_ joking when he told me that!” protested Mrs Hudson.

“Sorry, Mrs H,” Lestrade apologized, but he was having trouble containing a smile.

“We’re going about this the wrong way,” John declared. “We’re trying to figure out where Sherlock ran to, but the real question is, why did he run?”

“Well, dear, lots of people run when they think the police are coming to talk to them.”

Lestrade looked askance at Mrs Hudson, but John nodded. “The tabloids. Sherlock knew that once Janine’s story appeared in the tabloids, Lestrade would have more questions. So what does Sherlock know that he doesn’t want Lestrade asking questions about?” John started to pace back and forth across the living room.

“That could be a long list, mate,” said Lestrade, but John ignored him, kept pacing – and then stopped.

“He _knew_ who shot him.” John pointed towards his lower chest. “The bullet wound was here, so he was facing whoever it was.”

“So why not tell us?” Lestrade asked – and then answered his own question. “Because he’s tracking them down himself.”

“Or protecting them.”

“Protecting the shooter? Why?”

“Well, protecting _someone_ , then. But why would he care? He’s _Sherlock_. Whom would he bother protecting?”

John sat down absent-mindedly as names came to mind. Himself. Mary. Lestrade, Mrs Hudson. Molly perhaps. He tried and failed to imagine Molly Hooper, however pissed off, aiming a gun at Sherlock’s heart and pulling the trigger. He shifted in his seat – wait, what was he sitting on?

His armchair. The armchair that Sherlock had removed because he claimed it blocked his view of the kitchen. But here it was, back in its place – and only one person was likely to have put it there. John patted the arms thoughtfully and then realized that Lestrade was talking to him.

“ _Call_ me, okay, John?”

“Yeah. Yeah, right,” John answered. Distantly he was aware of Lestrade and Mrs Hudson talking, Lestrade leaving, Mrs Hudson offering him a cuppa.

“Mrs Hudson.” He cleared his throat. “Why does Sherlock think that I’ll be moving back in here?”

Mrs Hudson obviously had no idea. John tuned her out as he looked around the room again. He hadn’t _observed_ the chair until he sat in it. What else had he missed?

The perfume bottle. The perfume bottle on the table next to the chair. John generally couldn’t tell one perfume bottle from another, but this one had a distinctive shape. It was Mary’s favourite. She’d worn it on their wedding day.

Whom was Sherlock protecting?

Dimly, John was aware of the phone ringing, of Mrs Hudson trying to get his attention. Finally he managed to focus on what she was saying.

The call was from Sherlock.

***

“Sit,” said Sherlock, pointing at a... wheelchair? With a morphine drip? John glared at them.

“I saw how far the window of your hospital room opened. That wouldn’t have fit through.”

“Well observed, John. Now sit down.” John sat.

“So you stole...”

“Borrowed,” murmured Sherlock as he fiddled with John’s jacket collar.

“...it. Or had someone else do that for you. Molly’s still too angry...”

“Poorly observed, John. Molly Hooper’s not one to hold a grudge. No, leave that the way I put it.”

“It’s _my_ collar!”

“It’s _my_ trap.”

“I’m not playing bait until you tell me what’s going on.”

“You’re not bait. You’re an observer. I promised I wouldn’t tell you what’s going on, so I’m going to show you instead.”

“Promised whom? Oi, stop messing up my hair! What am I meant to look like, anyway?”

“Me.”

“Sherlock, I hate to tell you, but an upturned collar and messy hair aren’t going to do it.”

“You’re assuming that I’m leaving the lights on.”

“Oh, great, we’re going to sit here in the dark waiting for a criminal to show up. And I left my gun at home.”

“Just as well,” said Sherlock lightly. “You wouldn’t want to go shooting the wrong person.” His phone beeped three times, then was silent. “My scout has spotted the target approaching. Now remember. Whatever you see or hear, stay perfectly still and don’t say anything.”

“Not if this person tries to shoot you again.”

“I don’t expect that to happen.”

“You _never_ expect that to happen!”

“ _Quiet,_ ” Sherlock hissed before strolling down the length of the Leinster Gardens facade, turning the lights off at John’s end of the corridor and slipping out the door to the street, the door slightly ajar behind him. He’d left John to wait alone, the bastard.

John was on the verge of standing up and leaving when the door opened again to admit... Mary?

She was holding a phone and John heard her address Sherlock, asking him what he wanted. Good question, thought John.

And then his wife, the nurse, pulled a gun out of her jacket, cocked it and pointed it at him. John’s breath caught before he realized. Not at _him_. At a shadowy figure in a wheelchair with a morphine drip, a figure with a turned-up collar and puffed-up hair.

At Sherlock.

But Mary listened to something the real Sherlock said on the phone and pulled something small out of her purse. A coin, John realized, as she flipped it into the air – and shot it.

“ _Less than half a centimetre off in any direction and he would have been dead,_ ” Dr Dixon had said.

Mary could have made that shot.

Behind Mary, Sherlock walked in through the open door.

“May I see?” he asked.

Mary peered back in John’s direction and started to laugh.

“It’s a dummy. I suppose it was a fairly obvious trick.”

She kicked the coin towards Sherlock, making him bend to pick it up. When he straightened up holding it and spoke, John could hear the pain in his voice.

“And yet, over a distance of six feet, you failed to make a kill shot.” He was breathing heavily. “Enough to hospitalise me, not enough to kill me. That wasn’t a _miss._ ”

And then, with appalling approval in his voice, “That was _surgery._ ”

“Why didn’t you come to me in the first place?” Sherlock asked with some anger. “I would have taken the case.”

“ _What_ case?”

“Yours.”

“Because John can’t ever know that I lied to him,” Mary said grimly, her gun still in her hand.

John closed his eyes as she continued speaking.

“It would break him and I would lose him forever – and, Sherlock, I will _never_ let that happen. _Please_ understand. There is nothing in this world that I would not do to stop that happening.”  


“Sorry,” said Sherlock. He flipped the lights on. “Not _that_ obvious a trick.”

And I, thought John Watson, watching his wife’s anguished face, am no dummy.

***

Sherlock more or less ordered them back to Baker Street, where he then did his best to argue that everything was _John’s_ fault, _his_ bloody fault for being addicted to dangerous situations and dangerous people.

Takes one to know one, as they say.

It all made a horrible kind of sense, absolutely useless for pushing back the tide of anger that threatened to swamp John, to suffocate his reason. “Just as well” John had left his gun at home, Sherlock had said.

John had never in his life felt so much like shooting something, and that included his time in Afghanistan.

Then Sherlock offered him a way through, a way to deal. In this flat, in this room, here and now, Mary was not his wife. She wasn’t the woman who’d lied to him since the day they met.

She was a client, nothing more.

Having no alternatives of his own, John once again did thing’s Sherlock’s way.

“Sit,” he told Mary. And when she asked why, “Because that’s where they sit. The people who come in here with their stories. The clients – that’s all _you_ are now, Mary. You’re a client. This is where you sit and talk – and this is where _we_ sit and listen, then we decide if we want you or not.”

She sat. She offered evidence, a pen drive holding what she claimed was “everything” about her past life. And then she asked John not to read it in front of her. Christ. He stuffed the thing in his trouser pocket to get it out of sight.

She offered her evidence, and then Sherlock spoke.

“By your skill set, Mary, you are – or _were_ – an intelligence agent. Your accent is currently English but I suspect you are not. You’re on the run from something. You’ve used your skills to disappear, but Magnussen knew your secret. I assume you befriended Janine in order to get close to him.”

“Oh – _you_ can talk!” retorted Mary.

To John’s disgust Sherlock smirked at her, a quick twist of his lips.

“Ohhh. _Look_ at you two,” John exclaimed. “ _You_ should have got married.”

Mary seemed to think this was license to address John directly.

“The stuff Magnussen had on me, I would have gone to prison for the rest of my life.”

“So you killed him. Just like that.”

“People like Magnussen _should_ be killed. That’s why there are people like me,” argued Mary.

“Perfect. So that’s what you were? An assassin? How could I _not_ see that?”

“You _did_ see that. And you married me.” Mary tilted her head towards Sherlock. “Because he’s right. It’s what you like.”

John stared back, unable to find words.

“In Mary’s defense,” said Sherlock, and there was something strange about his voice, “She saved my life.”

John couldn’t believe he was hearing this. “Sorry, _what_?”

“When I happened on her and Magnussen” – he was breathing heavily, why was he breathing so heavily? – “she had a problem. More specifically, she had a witness. The solution, of course, was simple. Kill us both and leave.”

Something was wrong.

“However, sentiment got the better of her. She took one precisely calculated shot to incapacitate me in the hope that it would buy her more time to negotiate my silence. Then she shot Magnussen and phoned the ambulance.”

Someone was clattering up the stairs, too fast to be Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock’s smile was a horrid, twisted thing. “She certainly didn’t do so for Magnussen’s sake.”

Two paramedics ran into the room. “Did somebody call an ambulance?” asked the one in the lead.

“Did you bring any morphine?” Sherlock replied. His pain was obvious now. “I asked on the phone.”

The paramedics looked puzzled. “We were told there was a shooting.”

“There _was_ , last week” – Sherlock gasped sharply – “but I believe I’m bleeding internally and my pulse is very erratic.”

He started to push himself up out of chair. _“_ You may need to re-start my heart... on the way.” His knees buckled.

John ran forward to grab Sherlock’s arm, hardly aware of Mary doing the same on the other side, hardly aware that he himself was speaking, almost chanting. “Come on, Sherlock. Come on, Sherlock.”

Sherlock grabbed John’s shoulder and clung to him, staring into his eyes. “John? John. I couldn’t tell you.” He grimaced in pain. “You had to be shown. But Mary did save my life.”

He grimaced again, cried out and started to fall. The paramedics rushed forward to help John lower him to the floor. John stepped back and watched as they fitted an oxygen mask to Sherlock’s pale face and got him ready for transport.

It was only when the paramedics lifted Sherlock’s stretcher and John prepared to follow them that he realized that at some point, Mary had left.


	3. Chapter 3

John returned to 221B late the next afternoon, feeling grimy, exhausted and hollowed out. He wanted nothing more than to find a reasonably clean horizontal surface and collapse, but the moment he closed the front door of the building behind him, Mrs Hudson appeared and waved him into her own flat. She got him seated at her kitchen table and placed hot soup, sandwiches and tea before him.

John knew that he would have owed her an update on Sherlock even if she hadn’t been willing to trade a meal for it. He vaguely remembered eating something in the hospital at some point and wasn’t at all hungry until he sat down. Then he was ravenous. In between bites and spoonfuls, he filled Mrs Hudson in on the latest.

Sherlock had indeed been bleeding internally, the result of sutures torn somewhere in the process of climbing out the hospital window, gallivanting around London arranging his trap, executing said trap and acting more or less as Mary’s defence solicitor. Dr Dixon had not been at all happy to have to repair her earlier work. John had suggested that she express her displeasure to Sherlock personally, supplying plenty of technical detail and not pulling any verbal punches. From the look on Dixon’s face, John got the impression she was looking forward to it.

“He should be in for at least a week. I had them put him in a room as far above the ground as possible.”

“Perhaps that Inspector Lestrade could assign some constables as guards? Where Sherlock’s a witness in a murder case and all?”

John stared, then chuckled. “That’s not a bad idea at all, Mrs Hudson. I’ll call him later – well, probably tomorrow at this point.” He barely caught himself in a yawn.

“You need some sleep, dear. Leave those dishes and go right upstairs. I made up the bed in your old room and left the windows open to air it out a bit. I’m not your housekeeper, mind, but just this once where everything’s been in such an uproar.”

“You’re a gem, Mrs Hudson. Thank you.”

John staggered up two flights of stairs, stripped down to his vest and pants and fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

When he woke again, it was to morning sunlight. He looked at his clothing from the day, no, the _two_ days before with distaste. But unless he wanted to go through Sherlock’s things and try to find something that might fit his shorter, stockier frame, these were the only clothes he had.

It was only when John was pulling on his trousers that he remembered the pen drive, still in the pocket. Grimacing, he took it out and tossed it onto his dresser before heading downstairs.

There was no milk in Sherlock’s flat, of course. Some things never change. John went down to Mrs Hudson’s to see if he might borrow some, only to discover Bill Wiggins sitting at her table with tea and toast in front of him and a small duffle bag at his feet.

“Mornin’, doctor,” he said with a broad grin. “Missus Morstan said I was to give this only to you. Right into yer ‘ands, she said. An’ she also said if I ‘ad to wait, Missus ‘udson might feed me.”

“Just this once, young man. I’m not a restaurant, that’s downstairs.” Mrs Hudson didn’t sound all that perturbed.

Obviously taking his responsibilities seriously, Bill put down his tea and toast to hand the duffle off to John. It was heavier than he’d expected.

“Ah, noticed the weight, did ya? It’s cloth but wiv somethin’ wrapped inside. I thought mebbe books, you bein’ a doctor an’ all, but the shape ain’t right for books.”

“Gave it a good feeling up, did you?” asked John sharply.

Bill shrugged. “It was a long trip gettin’ ‘ere.”

“Long enough to open the bag and look inside?”

“No, that I didn’t, doctor. That would be cheatin’.” Bill swallowed the last of his tea and wiped crumbs off his mouth with the back of his hand. “Missus ‘udson, doctor, it’s been a pleasure.” And he sauntered out the door.

“John, dear, would you like some breakfast as well?”

“Thanks, Mrs Hudson. Sherlock’s out of milk.”

“Never much for housekeeping, that one. Well, you’ll see to that now that you’re back. No, don’t look at me like that, John Watson. Sound carries in these old houses. Here, now.” She plunked a plate of a toast and a cup of tea down in front of him. “Would you like an egg, dear?”

“No, thanks, this is fine.”

Mrs Hudson sat down at the table with a cuppa of her own and looked at the bag. “There’s this to be said for marrying a criminal, dear. They _understand_ certain things.”

John choked on his tea.

***

John had phoned Lestrade from the hospital once Sherlock had been stabilized but not since. He owed Lestrade more than that so after breakfast, he paid a visit to New Scotland Yard.

Lestrade was not happy.

“A pair of blokes from MI-5 showed up first time this morning and informed me that they were confiscating the contents of Magnussen’s office and flat. Just the contents. I’m still stuck with the murder investigation.” He sipped the cup of coffee sitting on his desk and made a face. John wondered how long it had been there.

“John, you’ve got to give me _something_.”

“Well, you can add 23 and 24 Leinster Gardens to the list of Sherlock’s known boltholes.”

“Really. Y’know, someone called 999 last night...”

“Sherlock.”

“No, not from Baker Street. From 22 Craven Hill Gardens. The 999 operator was annoyed because it wasn’t really an emergency. The caller apparently felt an urgent need to report that someone was projecting a large photo of Marilyn Monroe on the buildings across the street. By the time we got someone out there, the projection was gone. The caller – fellow in his mid 80s – was quite stubborn about his identification. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Said he’d know her anywhere. Then again, he’d apparently had a bit to drink.”

“Craven Hill Gardens. That’s...”

“Across the street from 23 and 24 Leinster. What’s going on, John?”

John blew out a breath. “It’s... complicated.”

“Isn’t it always, where Sherlock’s concerned? Look, what about the person who shot him? You said it yourself, he must have seen them.”

“Maybe, but he wouldn’t tell me anything,” said John, trying for nonchalance. “You can ask him yourself, though. He’s going to be stuck in a hospital room for at least next few days.”

“That’s what we thought last time,” Lestrade retorted.

“They’ve got him on a higher floor this time. Also, you might want to post a constable or two outside his door. Protective custody for a material witness in your investigation.”

“You think the shooter’s still at large, then.”

“I don’t know, Greg. At the very least a guard might help keep Sherlock _in_. It was traipsing all over London that put him back in the hospital.”

“Okay. Okay, I’ll do that. You going to see him today?”

“As soon as I leave here.”

“Then try to get him to open up a bit, will you? I can’t do anything to help with my hands tied.”

“I know. Thanks, Greg.”

***

Sherlock glared blearily as John entered the hospital room.

“You’ve just come from New Scotland Yard, but Mrs Hudson gave you breakfast before you left.”

“Should I ask?”

“You’ve got a small smear of jam on your shirt. It’s not the kind you usually buy...”

“Or usually bought, almost three years ago.”

“But it’s Mrs Hudson’s favourite.”

John pulled a chair forward and sat down at the bedside. “You’re right, of course. She also provided breakfast to Bill Wiggins. My wife saw fit to wrap my gun in a couple of shirts and hand it off to a homeless crack addict to carry across London.”

“I wouldn’t worry. I doubt Wiggins knows how to shoot.”

“That’s not reassuring. I’ve seen _you_ try to shoot. How are you doing?”

“Dr Dixon was by to see me.”

“Oh?”

“Her level of competence is surprising.”

“In a good way or a bad way?”

“I’m surprised that the NHS has been able to retain her services for this long.”

“A little of both, then. Lestrade’s going to set a guard outside your room in case the person who shot you makes another try.”

“I don’t need a guard! You know that.”

“But Lestrade doesn’t, does he? Seriously, Sherlock, you need to think of something we can tell him. MI-5 barged in this morning and confiscated the contents of Magnussen’s office and flat, but left Lestrade with the murder case. And a drunken elderly gent who lives on Craven Hills Terrace reported seeing a large projection of a blonde, blue-eyed woman on the buildings across the street last night. What the hell was that meant to be?”

“Insurance, to keep her from shooting you.”

“Shooting _me_?”

“You were pretending to be me, try to keep up. I told her that if she shot me – that is, you – the body would be found in a building with her face projected on the front of it. Even Scotland Yard could have got somewhere with that. I take it that the Yard doesn’t have photos of the actual projection?”

“No.” And then, more urgently, “Sherlock, the CCTV cameras...”

“Mycroft will have had the footage pulled. Mary not only shot me, she also killed Magnussen – and the information Magnussen had could still be dangerous in the wrong hands. Mycroft will want to contain the situation until he’s figured how best to control it.”

“It all keeps coming back to Magnussen. He owned a media corporation, right? CAM Global News.”

“Wrong. Or no, not wrong. But merely a footnote to his real importance.” Sherlock raised the head of his bed so that he was almost sitting. “Magnussen used his power and wealth to gain information. The more he acquired, the greater his wealth and power. He knew the critical pressure point on every person of note or influence in the whole of the Western world and probably beyond. He was the Napoleon of blackmail, and he created an unassailable architecture of forbidden knowledge.”

“And you decided it would be a good idea to confront him alone, in his own flat.” John’s voice was tense with rising anger.

“I decided no such thing,” retorted Sherlock. “He was supposed to be out to dinner with the Marketing Group of Great Britain from seven ’til ten.”

“So you broke in to look for something. But he wasn’t out. In fact, he had company.”

“I may have been misinformed.”

“Damn it, Sherlock, why didn’t you bring me with you?”

“That wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“You’re saying that Mary would have shot you in front of me?” John asked incredulously.

“You wouldn’t have been with me. When I arrived at Magnussen’s office, Janine and the security guard were lying on the floor. You’re a doctor. You would have stopped to check their status and provide care if they were alive. I would have continued on up the stairs to Magnussen’s flat, where I would have found – did find – Mary and Magnussen. Mary’s back was to me when I entered the room. I thought she was... someone else.”

“Someone you knew?”

“Yes. Someone I was reasonably sure wouldn’t shoot me. I was quite close by the time Mary turned.”

“If you’d yelled for me then...”

“She would have shot me on the spot.”

“She shot you anyway!” John shouted.

“But not fatally,” Sherlock insisted. He started to lean forward, winced and lay back again. “And not before asking if you were with me. Your presence in the building would have created a problem for Mary. She couldn’t have let you become a suspect in Magnussen’s murder. She would have had to shoot me in any case, but she also would have had to leave Magnussen alive.”

“But then Magnussen would have called the police.”

“No. Not his MO.”

John could hear Sherlock’s troubled breathing.

“Magnussen would never have shared information with the police. He would have added it to what he already had on file for Mary and used it to control her, you and by extension, me. I would still have been shot. Mary would still be an assassin. And all three of us would be at Magnussen’s non-existent mercy.”

“Sherlock, lie back...”

“ _John_. Magnussen was like a shark – it’s the only way I can describe him. Have you ever been to the shark tank at the London Aquarium? Ever stood up close to the glass? Those floating flat faces, those dead eyes ... That’s what he was. I’ve dealt with murderers, psychopaths, terrorists, serial killers. None of them could turn my stomach like Charles Augustus Magnussen. I would have done _anything_ to keep from bringing you to his atten... Oh.”

“ _Sherlock!_ Lie back, Sherlock. Keep breathing.” John pressed the call button several times and then yelled, “ _Nurse! Oxygen!_ Keep breathing, Sherlock. I’m here, I’ve got you, Sherlock.”

An hour later, John was on his way back to Baker Street. Seething. Dr Dixon had arrived, taken charge of the situation and got Sherlock stabilized. Then – in front of the two police constables who’d arrived to guard Sherlock’s room – she’d given John a thorough telling-off and more or less ordered him out of the hospital.

No wonder Sherlock liked her, the bastard.

***

By the end of the week Sherlock’s morphine supply had been tapered off, leaving him bored and venomous. Everyone at the hospital was tired of being deduced by Sherlock, to the point where the constables had had to intervene. Then, of course, Sherlock deduced the constables.

Lestrade was not only running out of constables, he was also frustrated by the lack of leads. Sherlock had given a statement describing his shooter: dressed entirely in black, including a black face mask. Below average height for a British male, average build, blue eyes, fair skin around the eyes.

“At least I know it’s not you, mate,” Lestrade told John over coffee. “If you wanted to shoot Sherlock, you had plenty of chances before this.”

“Sherlock was injured, but Magnussen was killed,” John observed in a neutral voice.

“Yeah, at the moment we’re assuming that Magnussen was the intended target, Sherlock was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. He said he was attempting to retrieve incriminating letters on behalf of a client whom he can’t name. ‘Professional courtesy,’ he said, and I can’t fault him for that.”

“Trust Sherlock to rediscover courtesy when it’s convenient for him,” muttered John.

“Magnussen wasn’t supposed to be there. Sherlock said he inveigled Ms Hawkins into giving him Magnussen’s schedule, which is why she was pissed off at him. The whole story hangs together, but it doesn’t leave me much to go on.”

“Who’d want to shoot Magnussen?”

“Seems to be a long list, as far as I can tell. I keep following leads and then having them vanish. Or get cut off.”

“MI-5?”

“Maybe. And then there’s Marilyn Monroe. I still dunno if that’s related or a red herring.”

“Have you considered cross-dressers?” John offered helpfully.

“Cross-dressing assassins? Pretty small population, mate.”

“Sherlock and Mycroft have a cross-dressing uncle.”

Lestrade almost spit out his coffee.

“Very funny. Seriously, though, it’s been almost two weeks since the shooting and no one’s made an attempt on Sherlock’s life.”

“Except for the orderly whom Sherlock accused of shagging cadavers.”

“Except for him. I can’t justify keeping a protective guard on Sherlock much longer.”

“He’s being released into my care tomorrow in any case. I’ve managed to get my appointments for the next two weeks rescheduled with other doctors.”

Lestrade looked dubious.

“I’ve been fairly sure for some time now that Mycroft’s placed external surveillance on the flat. And I’ve made some... arrangements of my own.”

“Have you, then? Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“There is, actually. What have you got in the way of cold cases?”

The next day, Sherlock Holmes came home to 221B.

Mrs Hudson was overjoyed.

***

John surveyed the state of his miniscule wardrobe. He’d been living out of the duffle bag Mary had sent for almost two weeks, rinsing out pants and socks in the shower as needed. It was getting to the point where he either needed to buy new things or make a trip to the suburbs.

At the sound of a male voice other than Sherlock’s, he immediately forgot his clothing issues and ran down the stairs.

“...come to talk to you about... Dr Watson. Good day. Perhaps you have somewhere else to be.”

“Perhaps _you_ have somewhere else to be, Mycroft,” said Sherlock. “Making plans for your next meal or your next war. Possibly both simultaneously.”

“This is a matter...”

“...about which John has already been partially informed.”

Mycroft looked sour.

“By myself, of course. He needs to hear the rest. John, Mycroft has come to tell us when his people found when they broke into...”

“ _Accessed_.”

“...Appledore.”

“Apple what?” asked John.

“Magnussen’s house, Appledore,” repeated Sherlock. “The greatest repository of sensitive and dangerous information anywhere in the world. The Alexandrian Library of secrets and scandals – and _none_ of it is on a computer. Magnussen was smart – computers can be hacked. Every piece of information he had is on hard copy in vaults underneath that house.”

“Or rather,” said Mycroft quietly, “We thought it was.”

For once in his life, Sherlock looked genuinely shocked.

“There are no vaults...”

“There were vaults shown on the blueprints!” Sherlock protested.

“But none underneath the actual building. Merely a modest wine cellar stocked with excellent vintages.”

Sherlock gave his brother a narrow look. “And your team found no significant stores of information elsewhere in the house.”

“Correct, only a few bits and pieces.”

“But there _has_ to be...”

“Maybe he stored it in his Mind Palace. Would anyone like tea?” John offered.

“Yes, thank you,” said Mycroft.

“Yes. No. Wait.”

“Bit of a mixed message there, Sherlock.”

“What did you say? “ Sherlock demanded. “Before the tea?”

“I said that maybe Magnussen had a Mind Palace, like you two. Look, it was meant to be a joke, ignore it. I’m making tea, do you want some?”

But Sherlock and Mycroft were staring at each other.

“Impossible,” declared Mycroft. “The sheer volume of information...”

“A new and ingenious compression algorithm,” breathed Sherlock. “If we could find out what it was...”

“Unfortunately, he’s dead. Someone shot him,” retorted Mycroft, glancing at John.

“Maybe he made extra room by getting rid of _everything_ that made him human instead of just _most_ of it,” John snapped before turning his back and heading for the kettle. _He_ wanted tea, at least. _Needed_ it, if he was going to be dealing with these bloody geniuses.

But by the time it was ready, Mycroft had left. Sherlock absently accepted a cup of tea, smiling slightly. “My brother has a curious blind spot concerning you, John.”

“Hmmm?”

“He consistently underestimates you.”

Before John could reply, Sherlock picked up his violin, checked the tuning and began a series of what sounded like exercises. The conversation was obviously over.

***

“You’re going out.”

“It’s Wednesday. Mary has yoga class Wednesday afternoons.” And then, on an unhappy thought, “Or what she’s always claimed is yoga class, anyway.”

“John, if the assassins of London had been meeting for regular get-togethers every Wednesday afternoon, I would have found out long before now. You need more clothes, so you’re going... home.”

“I’m going back to the house,” John replied tersely. “And you’re barely a week out of hospital, so you’re staying here.”

“Really,” Sherlock drawled. “Did you ask Lestrade to post more guards?”

“Nope. Anderson.”

“Anderson.”

John had to chuckle at Sherlock’s appalled face. “Anderson’s got friends, all of whom are far more enthusiastic about spotting you _and_ following you than Lestrade’s people are.”

“Enthusiasm does not necessarily imply competence,” muttered Sherlock darkly.

“And they’ve all got cameras, of course.”

Sherlock sniffed audibly and turned back to his microscope. Molly had delivered a small cooler the evening before. John had decided not to ask about the contents, but he hoped they would keep Sherlock entertained for a while. Was the entire afternoon too much to hope for?

The Tube journey out to the suburbs seemed interminable. John still had his house key and let himself in once he arrived. He quickly located his largest duffle bag in the back of a closet and began filling with it the clothes he’d be mostly likely to need over the next... Well, how long, really? The weather was getting chillier. Winter would be here eventually. Best to be safe.

Soldiers learn how to pack efficiently. Even with John’s winter clothes, there was still room in the duffle. He threw in some toiletry items as well, then tried to think what else he might want. His RAMC mug, definitely. And his laptop! The latest set of medical journals he hadn’t quite finished with yet. And a few reference books he might want while reading... Actually, that was most of his books. He’d might as well bring the whole lot.

The books wouldn’t all fit in the duffle. He found a cardboard box in the kitchen. He could manage both the box and the duffle on the Tube, no problem. But if he was bringing the box, he’d might as well fill it. He’d spotted his dress uniform hanging in the closet, next to his wedding suit. Maybe if he put some of his socks and things into the box, he could fold the uniform into the duffle?

Oh! His cycling gear! He’d been making good progress on cycling, shame to give it up now. But there wasn’t enough space remaining in the box for his gear, so he had to start a second box. And there was the bicycle itself to think of. He’d never manage all this on the Tube. The taxi fare would be exorbitant, even if the driver could be persuaded to carry the bike.

If he had someone to help him... Sherlock. No, not Sherlock, he didn’t want to be responsible for sending Sherlock to the hospital a third time. But Sherlock might be able to contact Bill Wiggins, who’d already proven that he was willing to travel for food.

John was just pulling out his phone when he heard the front open. Damn, Mary was early! He glanced at the time display. Uh, no, she wasn’t. He’d lost track of time.

He heard her freeze on the door step. She’d know someone was here. And she’d know how to move almost soundlessly.

“It’s me! John!” he called.

Mary appeared in the doorway, gun in hand.

“Bringing that to yoga class now, are we?” John couldn’t resist the jibe.

She smiled sourly. “Hard to feel safe when someone’s put you under surveillance.”

John stared.

“Mycroft’s people aren’t as invisible as they’d like to think,” she clarified.

“I had nothing to do with that.”

She studied him a moment, then sighed. “You’re telling the truth. You’ve always been so honest, John.”

“Someone has to be,” he retorted before he thought better of it. “Sorry.”

She shrugged, studying the bicycle, the two boxes, the as-yet unzipped duffle with a bit of uniform still hanging out. “What’s all this, then?”

“I, ah, needed more clothes.”

“So you snuck back in while I was away.” Her voice was flat, her eyes narrowed.

“I didn’t sneak, I used my key. And the clothes situation was getting urgent.”

“You had an urgent need for your dress uniform. Right. I take it back, John,” Mary snarled. “You’re not honest at all. You’re a coward who didn’t even have the guts to tell me you were moving out.”

“ _You’re_ the coward who didn’t dare tell me your entire life was a lie!”

“You read the pen drive, then.”

John blinked. The pen drive? He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d seen it or where it might be.

“No. No, I haven’t. You want honesty, Mary? You want the truth? The truth is that I don’t give a rat’s arse what’s on that drive. Who you were, what you did before you met me is irrelevant. All I needed you to do, the _one_ thing I needed you to do was to tell me the truth.”

“You would have left me!”

“Or not. You’ll never know. _I’ll_ never know, because you took that choice away from me. What I _do_ know is that you not only kept information from me, you also lied. Our entire relationship is built on lies. You were never going to tell me the truth, not even when Sherlock and I could have helped you with Magnussen.”

“I didn’t need your help,” Mary spat. “I could, I _did_ take care of Magnussen on my own. If Sherlock hadn’t come bumbling in, you’d never have known.”

“No, because you’d never have told me. _Why_ , Mary?”

“I was trying to protect you!”

“What the _FUCK_ is it with you and Sherlock Bloody Holmes?” John roared. “You shoot people, you get shot, you jump off fucking _buildings_ and _die_ and then claim it’s all to protect me! Did it ever occur to you that protection goes both ways? Caring goes both ways. That’s how relationships _work_ , but how would you know that, you’re a psychopath!”

“I’m not really, you know.” Tears were running down Mary’s face. John wondered if she realized. “Neither is he. But which one of us are you talking to, John Watson?”

John stared at her, then turned away and began wrestling with the zip on the duffle.

“Don’t try to force it like that, you’ll break it. Here.” She tossed something at him, which he caught by reflex. The car keys. “You’ll never get all that on the Tube. Put the keys in the mail slot when you bring the car back. Don’t bother knocking, I won’t answer.”

She turned and walked away. She’d been holding her gun the entire time. John heard a door slam. The spare bedroom, it sounded like.

Shit, they’d been talking about using that room for a nursery. Some day.

He got the duffle zipped, got the car loaded, drove back to Baker Street very carefully because a car wasn’t a weapon, no matter how much he wanted a weapon right now. Anderson & Co helped him unload. Sherlock ignored them, busy at work on his laptop instead. There was bloody fluid all over the kitchen table, left behind by something which had once been alive.

John drove the car back to the house, put the keys through the mail slot and took the Tube home.

***

“John Watson... Oh, hi, Steve!... Sorry, she what?... No, she didn’t... I see... Okay, right. Yes. Fine... I’ll take care of it... Yes, I understand. Ah, by the end of next week?... Great. Thanks, Steve.”

John ended the call and stared blankly in Sherlock’s direction. “That was my landlord. My ex-landlord, I suppose. Mary’s been gone the past week. She told him we’d separated and that I would be taking charge of clearing the place out so he could rent it to someone else.”

“The day you attempted to use Anderson and his accomplices to intimidate me...”

“The day I went and got my things, you mean.”

Sherlock shrugged and snagged John’s laptop, pulling it across the table.

“Oi, I was using that!”

“You were upset when you returned – with the car. So you encountered Mary, who gave you the keys.”

“Yeah. I lost track of time, she came home and we had... a bit of a row.”

Sherlock hummed slightly, his attention on the laptop.

“Well, more than a bit. But... I didn’t think we’d _decided_ on anything.”

“Mary apparently did. Here.” Sherlock shoved the laptop back towards John, who blinked at the screen.

“UrPlace?”

“They run a homeless shelter and also help people who’ve been living in the shelter find more permanent places to stay and get settled in. As a result, they have an ongoing need for donations of household goods. Anything their clients can’t use they can probably sell in their thrift shop.”

“You’re suggesting that I give away everything in the house?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Is there anything still there that you want? If so, I’d suggest you collect it. Then call UrPlace and give them the address. They’ll send a truck and people to haul things. If you prefer, I can arrange to have Wiggins meet them with the key. Give him a chance to catch up with some friends, so to speak.”

“That’s... actually a very good idea. Thank... Oh, hell. _Mary_.”

“If there was anything that Mary wanted, she should have taken it with her.”

“Sherlock, Mary said that Mycroft had her under surveillance. She won’t be able to... get away.”

“Mary’s a clever woman, John. Almost clever enough to evade Mycroft’s people on her own.”

“Yeah, well, it’s the ‘almost’ that...”

“She hardly needed my assistance at all.”

“...concerns me. Sorry, what? Your... Sherlock.” The grin John felt stretching across his face was echoed by the bloom of warmth in his heart.

Sherlock shrugged. “Some people might question my motives in expediting your wife’s departure from the country and your own re-establishment in 221B.”

“People talk,” replied John. “But a very wise man once pointed out to me that they do little else.”

Smiling just a bit, looking almost embarrassed to be caught in an act of sentiment, Sherlock returned to his microscope.


	4. Chapter 4

A few days later, Sherlock was given permission by Dr Dixon to resume his normal activities. (John checked with her to ensure that she understood what said activities entailed.) He chose to celebrate by executing a flying tackle in a filthy alley on a bloke who outweighed him by more than seven stone.

“Damn it, Sherlock, there are police constables meant to be doing that sort of thing. Couldn’t you have waited for one just this once?”

“The police were too slow,” Sherlock croaked. “He’d’ve escaped if I hadn’t got hold of him.”

“To me it looked more like _he_ had hold of _you_. No, don’t answer that. Say ahhhh...”

“Arrrrgggghhhh.”

“Okay. You’ll have a sore throat and a lovely necklace of bruises for the next several days, but your hyoid bone is whole and there doesn’t seem to be any other serious damage. Have we learned anything from this experience?”

“Arrrrgggghhhh.”

“Didn’t think so. I’ll make some tea.”

***

John returned to work at the clinic. He needed, of course, a nurse to work with.

“We’re interviewing our best candidate this afternoon,” John mentioned casually over breakfast as Sherlock sipped his tea and ignored his toast. “The interview should be over at about 4:30, 4:45, so I’ll have time to pick up some shopping after. Do we need anything besides milk and bread?”

Sherlock treated the question the same way he’d treated the toast.

As John walked the candidate – who’d interviewed wonderfully – towards the outside door of the waiting room at 4:39, an older, grey-haired man with a bushy beard stood up too fast and became dizzy, causing both John and the nurse to rush to assist him. The man apologized charmingly in an accent that suggested Eastern Europe. He was especially gallant towards the nurse and struck up a bit of a conversation with her, which she managed with appropriate professionalism. John was quite pleased.

He was in the middle of the Tesco when he received a text.

“Three cats, all exotic short-hairs. SH”

And a moment later:

“No other issues. SH”

John hired her.

***

Life went on with no incidents other than the usual. Thus, when Mrs Hudson announced a visitor one evening, John was expecting a client. He was surprised and, for reasons he could not quite fathom, uneasy when the visitor proved to be Dexter, the alpha he’d last seen in 221B with Janine.

“Sherlock,” Dexter started off eagerly. Then he noticed John and his face fell slightly. “Uh, Dr Watson.”

“John, please.”

“Oh, yeah, John, sorry.” He eyed John, John’s newspaper, John’s armchair and John’s sock-covered feet.

“John and Mary have separated,” Sherlock put in smoothly. “John has returned to live here as my flatmate, as he did for some years prior to his marriage.”

“Oh! I’m sorry to hear that! Uh. I mean, I’m sorry to hear about the separation.”

John didn’t doubt it. Quite clearly Dexter would have preferred John to be still living with Mary, as far away from 221B as possible.

“Some things aren’t meant to be,” he replied, looking Dexter in the eye.

“Ignore John, Dexter. He’s devoted to his evening paper and becomes grumpy when interrupted. Would you like some tea? Please, sit down.”

John stared as Sherlock ushered Dexter to a seat at the kitchen table. Only when Sherlock glanced his way and raised an eyebrow did John stick his head back into his curiously uninteresting newspaper.

He could still _hear_ , though.

“So, ah, Sherlock. I heard you were in the hospital for bit?”

“A bit, yes.   A bit in, a bit out, then a bit in again.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that it was twice.”

“Janine left London before the second occurrence.”

Dexter flushed. “Yeah, I was talking to Janine. I guess you’d deduce that. But it wasn’t... Look, Sherlock, I was pretty upset when those articles came out, and I just kind of... backed away. From everything. But I didn’t have anything to do with them, and when I thought about it, I realized I’d never heard your side of the story. Everything that was published about you using, well, us – those were just Janine’s allegations. You never responded.”

“A dogfight conducted across the pages of the tabloids would have achieved nothing except to sell more tabloids. Sugar?”

“No, thanks. Oh, ta. Mmmm. This is really good tea.”

_That_ , thought John irately, is PG Tips I bought at the Tesco. You probably drink the same at home.

“Anyway. You’re right! About not having a dogfight, I mean. I respect that, and I, ah, respect you. I always have. And I’ve been thinking about you, can’t stop really, and. Well. I was wondering.”

“Dexter.”

“Don’t say no right away. You could think about it awhile, y’know? I don’t want you to feel pressured or, well, anything. Well, I guess I _am_ hoping you’ll feel _something_.” Dexter laughed nervously. “But we could try being friends first, y’know?”

“Dexter, I’m sorry. Everything Janine alleged is true.”

Silence from the kitchen.

Then the clatter of ceramic against wood, followed by, “Oh, hell! I’m sorry, oh god, it’s dripping onto the floor, I’m sorry...” Dexter sounded as if he were about to cry.

“Don’t worry about that, John will take care of it,” Sherlock advised.

John slammed down the paper, but neither Sherlock nor Dexter was looking at him. Both men were on their feet. They stared at each other as tea dripped from the overturned mug onto the floor.

“I _am_ sorry, Dexter. You didn’t deserve to be caught up in that situation, except in the sense that your lack of self-confidence set you up to be vulnerable to it.”

John winced, but Dexter surprised him by straightening and smiling wryly. “You’re telling me to learn from what happened and move on.”

“I am,” agreed Sherlock. “You’re a good man, Dexter McCrae.” And to John’s amazement, he reached out and touched Dexter lightly on one cheek. “Go out and find some other good people.”  

“Okay.” Sniff. “Thanks.” Dexter started to leave and then turned. “Hey, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked at him.

“You too.” And he was gone.

Sherlock started to head for the sofa, but John intervened. “Stop right there, Sherlock. If you can make tea...”

“Anyone can make tea, John. It’s just...”

“...you can mop up the spill.”

“...easier for you to do it.”

They ended up compromising: John mopped up the spill while Sherlock made more tea.

“You were surprisingly kind to him,” John commented.

“Dexter McRae was perhaps the only true innocent caught up in this sorry mess.”

“Dexter – but not Janine? Oh, ta.” John accepted his mug of tea.

“These walls aren’t soundproof, John. Janine was in the bedroom while Mycroft and I were bellowing Magnussen’s name back and forth. The familiar name would have caught her ear, but she never asked why we were discussing her employer at such volume.”

“Perhaps she didn’t want to interfere in a family quarrel?”

“Perhaps. But as you’ve probably guessed, I obtained Magnussen’s schedule from Janine. That’s why I expected him to be absent from his office and flat that evening. And yet he wasn’t. Did Janine warn him? Was the security guard supposed to apprehend me after she let me in?”

“Wait, _Janine_ let you in?”

“Keep up, John. How did you think I’d managed it?”

“I’d assumed you’d, uh, broken in. Somehow.”

“I did. I exploited a weakness in the security system. Access to those floors of the building was controlled by a private lift called by Magnussen’s key card and _only_ his key card. Someone attempting to call it with any _other_ key card would have been immediately accosted by security.”

“You’d get dragged off to a small room somewhere and have your head kicked in,” John agreed.

Sherlock gave him a look. “Do we really need so much colour? No, don’t bother answering. I’d nicked a standard key card for the building the previous day. Do you know what happens if you press a key card against your mobile phone for long enough?”

“Can’t say I’ve ever tried.”

“It corrupts the magnetic strip. The card stops working. It’s a common problem – never put your key card with your phone.”

“But... the card still wouldn’t work to call the lift.”

“But it wouldn’t read as the _wrong_ card. It would register as corrupted. But if it was corrupted, how would the security guards know it’s not Magnussen? Would they risk dragging _him_ off?”

“Probably not.”

“So what would they do? What would they _have_ to do?”

“Check if it’s him or not.”

“There was a camera at eye height to the right of the door. A live picture of the card user was relayed directly to Magnussen’s personal staff in his office – the only people trusted to make a positive ID. At that hour, the person responding would almost certainly be his PA.”

“Janine.”

“The weakness in the system: sentiment. I grinned like an idiot for the camera and told her I’d been thinking about her and Dexter all day and needed to talk to her right away.”

“Sherlock...”

“When she hesitated, I displayed a catalog for pricey engagement rings and batted my eyes.”

“You batted your eyes.”

“It’s quite effective under certain circumstances. It certainly worked in this one. Janine made a very strange squealing noise and let me in.”

“Sherlock, that was a bit... _more_ than a bit not good. What were you going to tell her?”

“That the entire relationship was a ruse to break into her boss’ office. I imagine she would have wanted to stop seeing me at that point and that she would have told Dexter as well.” Sherlock shrugged. “As it turned out, I didn’t need to tell her anything. Someone knocked her unconscious first.”

“Mary.”

“Possibly. Tell me, John, how did Mary get in?”

“Uh, ah – I don’t know.”

“Neither do I. It’s _infuriating_. Was Janine in league with Mary? Did she _let_ herself get knocked out for verisimilitude? But then why make a point of telling you _not_ to tell Mary that Janine was seeing _me_? And why let me in while she knew Mary was there? Did she _want_ me to confront Mary? Had she been working off some plan of her own from the first? Was she trying to double-cross Mary or did she truly not know Mary’s plan? And what about the security guard?”

“What security... Oh, the one found dead in Magnussen’s office?”

“Of course, how many others were involved? Who killed him? Janine, working with Mary? Mary, working with Janine? Or was _he_ Mary’s accomplice?”

“You mean _he_ might have knocked Janine out.”

“And then been double-crossed by Mary for his pains.”

John took a deep breath.

“Sherlock, have you considered the possibility that Janine just might have been an innocent woman who loved you?”

“Briefly.”

“Good. That’s...”

“For 0.69 seconds. She came to see me in the hospital after the story hit the tabloids. She called me a back-stabbing, heartless, manipulative bastard.”

“You can’t believe everything people say when they’re angry.”

“I called her a grasping, opportunistic, publicity-hungry tabloid whore.”

“You’d might as well believe it then, because it’s certainly what she thinks now.”

Sherlock nodded. “We’re good. She bought herself a cottage, did you know?”

“No... No, wait. Lestrade said something about Sussex?”

“That’s right. John, what do you know about urban beekeeping?”

John blinked. “I know that you’re not keeping bees in this flat.”

“Of course not. The hives would have to go on the roof. Hmmm, we’ll need to modify the roof for easier access. I’m sure Mrs Hudson won’t mind provided we give her some of the honey.”

“You might want to confirm that with Mrs Hudson before you go any further. Remember the time you used my gun to ‘modify’ the wall?”

Only when John was lying in bed later that night did it occur to him that Sherlock had quite effectively diverted the conversation away from Janine, Dexter and relationships in general.

***

It turned out that Sherlock’s interest in urban beekeeping was genuine. Books on beekeeping and issues of _Bee Craft – The Informed Voice of British Beekeeping_ began appearing around the flat. John began keeping a lookout for any unusual parcels, especially those that might hum or buzz.

The appearance of cases that might distract Sherlock from things apian was almost a relief, although said cases came with their own hazards. There was, for example, the series of corpses left in sewage treatment works along the Thames, beginning with Longreach and moving west. For reasons best known to himself, Sherlock borrowed John’s phone. By the end of the case, Sherlock’s phone was still safe in the pocket of his Belstaff. John’s phone was quite literally in deep shit. Even after being retrieved and thoroughly cleaned, it never worked quite right again.

It was after another, less odoriferous case that Sherlock and John stopped for lunch at a cafe. John ordered tea, a toastie and a packet of crisps. Sherlock ordered coffee and badgered John into ordering cheddar-and-chives crisps instead of salt-and-vinegar. The day was sunny and unusually warm for early November, so they took their meal outdoors. Two boys went running by outside, one of them carrying a Guy Fawkes mannequin.

“It’s the fifth of November, isn’t it?” mused John as he watched them. “This isn’t where I thought I’d be this time last year.”

Sherlock stole more crisps and shrugged. “This time last year you almost got burnt alive. Where did you expect to be except in ashes?”

John smiled ruefully. “I thought I’d be married to the beautiful omega I’d been dating. Maybe we’d be courting a beta by now.”

“Someone to carry and raise your children while the two of you went off and lived your exciting alpha/omega lives.”

Sherlock’s blatantly sneering tone would have been annoying, except... This was Sherlock, who believed that alone protected him from, among other things, the burden of others’ expectations. Who _couldn’t_ believe that an omega might love him. Who told an alpha to find “some other good people” – and never counted himself among that number.

“This isn’t the 1960s, Sherlock,” John said mildly. “Everyone accepts betas in the workforce.”

“How many betas were there in your class at medical school? How many did you serve with in the army?”

His point was inarguable. There’d been damn few betas and almost no married betas. Those who established successful careers were generally betas like Mycroft. They used the stereotypically calm beta temperament – supposedly so wonderfully suited towards raising children – to rise above the more tumultuous alphas and omegas around them. “Career betas” were both admired for their dispassionate logic and reviled for their cold-heartedness.

Sherlock, however logical, was about as dispassionate and cold-hearted as a tango. True, his passions often ran in directions that some other people considered freakish. But John couldn’t imagine Mycroft jumping off a building to save three other people or even three thousand.

And there were, of course, exceptions to everything. “ _Greg’s_ a beta,” John pointed out.

“Who?”

“Greg Lestrade.”

“Lestrade was promoted because he has a higher solve rate than any other DI on the force. That’s because of me, of course. That’s why he likes me.”

And here they were again. “Sherlock, that’s not why he likes you.”

Sherlock shrugged and stole more crisps. He’d eaten more than half by now. “Tolerates me, then.”

“He _likes_ you because you’re a good person. Not that you can’t also be a royal pain in the arse, but... Greg likes you. _I_ like you.”

“You have a penchant for psychopaths.”

John smiled wryly and snagged a few crisps before Sherlock got them all. “Apparently so. Maybe I won’t end up with kids after all.”

Sherlock frowned. “You want children.”

“Doesn’t look as if I’m likely to end up with someone who can give them a stable home environment, does it?”

“And that concession would be acceptable to you?” The question was quiet, without mockery. Sherlock was making a genuine effort to understand a concept that eluded him.

“To spend the rest of my life with the right pair of people – or the right person, if it comes to that – I’d be willing to make quite a few concessions,” responded John, equally quietly.

Sherlock considered him a moment, then began to lick the salt off his long fingers. John could only watch the tip of Sherlock’s tongue stroking the skin for a moment before he had to look away.

“Where did you think you’d be now at this time last year?” he asked, as much to distract himself as for any other reason.

Sherlock paused. “Extrapolating that far in advance is rarely useful. Too many variables.”

“Well not ‘think’ then but hope? Fear?”

Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of himself, the tips just below his chin. “When I was... away, I often feared that I would not survive. The emotion wasn’t useful, it didn’t affect my actions or goals, but... it was there.”

John remembered Afghanistan and nodded his understanding.

“I didn’t – or tried not to – think too much about what might happen if I did survive and made it back.”

“To London.”

“To Baker Street. When I did return, I thought I might surprise you. Jump out of a cake or something.”

Oh, Sherlock.

“But you weren’t there.” Sherlock’s mouth twisted in what might have been intended as a smile. “It had been two years, of course you weren’t there.”

“I’d’ve liked that, though. Seeing you jump out of a cake.”

John was trying for levity, but Sherlock only stared at him, then shrugged. “We’d have ended up rolling around all over it when you attacked me.”

And there was another image John’s mind didn’t need. Him and Sherlock, tangled together amidst the ruins. In his mind’s eye, they were wearing nothing but icing and crumbs.

John struggled to find the words he wanted, but Sherlock was looking away now, studying the passers-by. The sun went behind a cloud and a cold gust of wind blew a stray broadsheet against the side of John’s head. By the time he’d fought free of it, Sherlock was several strides down the pavement, looking for a cab. John ran after him, not wanting to lose him in the crowd.

They didn’t talk during the ride home.

***

John’s phone eventually gave up the ghost entirely, forcing him to venture out with the goal of buying a new one. He was promptly confronted with a bewildering array of styles, features and prices. Frustrated and tired of the entire process, he was just about to pick the least expensive one and try to get a salesclerk to notice him when a voice behind him said, “Oh, no, I can’t let you buy that. That would be, well, criminal.”

John turned to find Dexter smiling at him. “Hi, Dr Watson, uh, John. It’s Dexter? Sherlock’s, uh, well, Sherlock’s ex, I suppose.”

John smiled back and they shook hands. “I remember you. And if you know anything about mobiles at all, I’ll buy whatever you suggest as long as I can afford it.”

“Then you definitely don’t want that one. One, it’s poorly constructed. It won’t last a year. Two, it’s poorly designed. You’ll never use most of the features simply because they’re a pain in the arse to access.”

John nodded. “Okay, then.”

“Now _this_ one...” Dexter indicated a different phone. “...is a little pricier but not by much. It’ll last longer and you’ll do more with it.”

That sounded promising. “Can I swap, well, can the SIM card from my old phone be swapped into this one?”

“Got your old phone with you?”

John whipped it out.

“Yeah, it should be compatible. Ah, I noted the use of the passive tense. Do you need a hand? I’ve got time.”

“That would be great! I’ll buy you a coffee to say thank-you.”

Once John had paid for his new phone, he and Dexter settled in at table in a nearby Costa. Dexter soon had the new phone up and running. John was both admiring and grateful, but Dexter brushed him off.

“I enjoy helping other people with things that I actually know something about.”

“I know how that goes,” replied John. And when Dexter looked blank he added, “Being a doctor, I mean.”

“Oh, right! Yeah, you would. Except... You’re the kind of person who seems like he knows about lots of different things whether he actually does or not.”

John managed to stifle a laugh, but he couldn’t keep from smiling, and Dexter flushed. “Sorry, that didn’t come out right. I mean, you seem very confident, and I’m... not. But I’m working on that. I’m, ah, I’m actually meeting a beta-omega couple for dinner. I met them at FACTS in September.”

“Facts?”

“Oh, yeah, you probably haven’t heard of it. It’s a huge convention held every year in Belgium. I met this couple there. They seemed nice enough but at the time, I was seeing Janine and, y’know, Sherlock, so I didn’t think anything of it. But I ran into them again recently, it turns out they live near London and, well, I’m _trying_. So I asked them to dinner and they accepted!”

“Good on you!” John was chuckling openly by now, but Dexter grinned right back at him.

“How are things going with you and Sherlock?”

John froze. “We’re not... We’re flatmates.”

Dexter was instantly contrite. “Right, that’s what Sherlock said. Except... When I thought about it later on, I thought Sherlock might have been trying to set me at ease about being there.”

John snorted. “Sherlock? Not the sort of thing he’d bother to do.”

Dexter surprised him by retorting stubbornly, “He’s not that bad. He’s kind, he can be charming...”

“That was an _act_ , Dexter.”

“Maybe the charming bit, but he was kind even when he was letting me down and didn’t need the act anymore.”

Which was true. John couldn’t think of anything to say, and Dexter kept talking.

“He’s brilliant and gorgeous, you can’t argue that. And you didn’t _look_ as if you two were flatmates.”

“What did I look like, then?” asked John, startled.

“The same way I imagine you’d look at another alpha who’d come courting your beta,” Dexter replied bluntly.

John raised an eyebrow. “You _are_ making progress on the self-confidence front.”

Dexter flushed. “Okay, right, sorry. It’s between you and him.”

“Not a problem. Thanks for helping with the phone.”

“Thanks for the coffee.”

“And good luck with your date tonight!” John gave the younger man a grin as he stood up to go.

But Dexter had one more thing to say. “John? I wouldn’t be going on a date tonight if I hadn’t got up the courage to ask.”

***

The thing is, Dexter was right. Sherlock was brilliant, Sherlock was gorgeous. He could be charming.

He could be a complete dickhead.

He could be kind. He could be caring. He’d cared enough about John (and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson) to jump off a building and spend two years hunting down Moriarty’s network.

He’d thought John would be waiting for him when he got back. Egotism? Or naïve hope?

Of course, Sherlock had also made John’s life hell because he trusted Mycroft and Molly and twenty-five or so tramps but not, apparently, John. Or rather, John’s acting skills. He’d needed to ensure that John would give a convincing performance of grief. John wondered if Sherlock had ever realized just how convincing that performance might have become, had it not been for Mary.

Mary the psychopath. Mary the liar. But John might have spent the rest of his life with her, might have courted a beta and raised a family with her, without ever knowing that. Sherlock, quick enough to lie on his own behalf, had believed John deserved to know the truth about Mary and had cared enough to... Cared enough that he’d...

John dropped the newspaper he’d been hiding his thoughts behind. “Bloody hell, Sherlock, you did it _again_ , didn’t you?”

Sherlock looked up from his microscope and studied John a moment. “You think you’ve just realized that in escaping from the hospital, I was risking my life for the sole purpose of demonstrating Mary’s duplicity to you.” He shrugged. “I would have had to leave the hospital anyway. I was too vulnerable lying there, drugged up on morphine.”

“You had guards,” John pointed out.

“Who had not been instructed to guard against my best friend’s wife and would not have thought it suspicious if they spotted the doctor’s wife, the trained nurse, doing something with my IV. Janine fiddled with it for nothing more than a bit of malice. Mary had more urgent reasons.”

“You mean you thought she was going to kill you,” John said flatly.

Another shrug. “Once Janine’s story hit the papers, Lestrade was bound to return with more questions. Mary had already warned me to keep silent but anyone who knows me – including you – would have told her how poorly I listen to warnings. She had a motive and the means. I decided to deprive her of the potential opportunity.”

“So to save your own life, you not only escaped the hospital but then also ran all over London and almost killed yourself doing so. Right. That makes loads of sense.”

“She’s a hunter, John. Going to ground was useless as a long term strategy. Instead of waiting for her to hunt me down, I set a trap.”

“Using me as bait.”

“Yes, because...”

“Because once I knew the truth about Mary, she had to either leave you alone or kill us both.”

It was only when Sherlock stared at him that John heard, in his own words, the absolute and unflinching declaration of allegiance.

“You deserved to know the truth in any case,” Sherlock replied softly. For a bizarre moment, John though he meant the truth that John had just uttered. Then he realized.  

“You mean the truth about Mary. Sherlock, I don’t blame you for that. It’s just... You can’t keep doing things like this without trusting me enough to let me know what’s going on.”

“When we were at the pool...”

“The pool?”

“With Moriarty.”

“Oh, _that_ pool.”

“You grabbed him and yelled at me to run. You were wrapped in Semtex, you knew there were snipers aiming at you. You tried to sacrifice your life to give me a chance to escape.” Sherlock’s voice was intent, focussed as a laser beam. “When did _you_ let _me_ know what you were going to do?”

“That’s not the same thing, Sherlock! I had an opening to grab Moriarty, I took it. There wasn’t enough time to explain.”

“Precisely. _There’s never enough time_. I needed to obtain the props, set the trap, arrange for a scout _and_ convince you to act as bait _before_ Mary tracked me down – knowing she would have started looking the moment you told her I’d left the hospital. No, don’t waste time on guilt, you didn’t know. _There was no time to tell you_. And it would have been useless anyway.”

“Hold on there, I know I’m not as intelligent as you...”

“John, your loyalty is the very core of your being. Even if I’d walked you through every detail that I’d seen, if I’d drawn the pattern the details made, even if I’d done all that, you wouldn’t have been _convinced_. Nothing could have convinced you except Mary’s own words, her own actions, performed in front of your own eyes. So I arranged for the performance. It was the only way you’d believe me.”

John drew a breath. “When you jumped. At St Bart’s.”

“You’re not unintelligent, but you don’t see what I see. You listen when I explain, which is more than most people do. But you _need_ explanations, and that takes time. Forced to choose between explaining and saving your life, John Watson, I will _always_ choose the latter.”

And there it was.

Sherlock was married to his work, but really that was no problem. Every good marriage had three partners.

Sherlock wasn’t interested in children, sex or even, as far as John could tell, a bit of a cuddle from time to time. That was a stickier bit to get over.

But Sherlock would always choose John, and John would always choose Sherlock.

_That_ was the truth that there was no getting over or going around.

“Sherlock, would you and your work like to go out with me and have fun?”

Sherlock looked confused. “You’re asking me on a date.”

“I was thinking dinner.”

The confusion morphed into amusement, but John couldn’t tell if it was real or a defense mechanism.

“Seriously, John. ‘Let’s have dinner?’”

“Or not. Okay, I’m sorry, just delete the whole...”

“John?”

“Yes?”

“We accept.”


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock made no comment when John gave the cabbie the address for Angelo’s. However, he did raise one eyebrow when they were seated at exactly the same table they’d occupied on their first visit here.

“I thought it would be... nostalgic,” offered John. “Bring back memories.” He tugged a bit nervously at his jumper, a deep navy blue that Mary had once told him brought out his eyes. Knowing that Sherlock would be wearing a suit, John had considered dressing more formally, but... No. This was a first date. A sort of dressed-up casual was called for. For Sherlock, that happened to be a suit. John wore his navy blue jumper with a new pair of cords and hoped for the best.

Any response Sherlock might have made was interrupted by the arrival of Angelo, bearing menus and not just a candle but rather a decorative bit of metalwork holding _three_ candles.

As Angelo bustled off, Sherlock considered the long, curved piece of metal rising up from the table. “You’re far more insecure than I expected from ‘Three Continents’ Watson.”

Mortified, John blurted, “Christ, all I asked for was something more special than a candle! I’m sorry, I’ll ask Angelo to...” It was only then that he caught the glint in the grey eyes. “You’re taking the piss, aren’t you?”

Sherlock gazed back at him, trying for innocent and missing it by a mile. John couldn’t have said who started laughing first. It hardly mattered because by the time Angelo came back to take their orders, they were both laughing hard enough that two of the candles had been blown out.

“Oh, so lovely!” Angelo grinned as he relit the candles. “Laughter is what keeps love alive.”

John let Sherlock order the wine – Sherlock was the one who knew what was what on that score – but ordered an appetizer along with his entrée so that Sherlock could steal bits of it.

Once they’d been left alone again, however, the conversation flagged.

“I’ve researched dating protocols on the Internet,” Sherlock said. “This is normally the point at which we would tell each more about ourselves. Hobbies, interests, that sort of thing.”

“My hobby is chasing around after a completely mad consulting detective in the interest of keeping him from killing himself.”

“Fascinating. How long have you been doing that?”

“Pretty intensely for a few years. Then there was a sort of... hiatus.” John took a sip of wine, swallowed too quickly and coughed. “But I’m getting back into it now.”

“I see. Ask me about places I’ve travelled.”

“Normally you accomplish that by asking your date about places _he’s_ travelled, which prompts him to return the question after he’s answered it himself,” John observed.

“Tedious, especially as you haven’t travelled since Afghanistan. Ask me.”

John was agreeable. “So, Sherlock, tell me about places you’ve travelled.”

Sherlock, it turned out, had travelled in Tibet. He regaled John with his detailed observations of local customs, his encounters with local cuisine...

“Yak butter and salt. In milky tea.”

“You’re joking.”

“I assure you, I’m not.”

“Can you talk about something else while we’re eating?”

... and his role in discovering and destroying a smuggling ring that had infiltrated a monastery.

“You were in a monastery? With monks? _Meditating?_ ”

“The monks were meditating. _I_ was working on uncovering the smuggling ring. Try to keep up.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Approximately two years.” Sherlock speared a gnocco and, to John’s amazement, ate it.

Two years. That would have been... Oh. Of course. Sherlock must have travelled through any number of places in the course of unravelling Moriarty’s network. He’d never spoken about any of them. Then again, John had never...

He’d never asked. His best friend had been away two years and John had never thought to ask where he’d been or what he’d done. Or what he’d had done to him. John had caught glimpses of Sherlock’s back both while he’d been in the hospital and after he’d come home. And John had treated men in Afghanistan who’d been captured and tortured.

But John had never asked, not even the most innocuous question. He was a doctor, but he hadn’t given Sherlock even the slightest opening to talk if he wanted to.

“John?”

John startled.

“Do you not like the fettucini or am I boring you?”

John pulled himself together. If Sherlock wanted to talk now, John was damn well going to listen. “Neither. The fettucini is fine and _you_ ” – he reached across the table to take Sherlock’s hand – “could never be boring.”  

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the cheesy line but seemed pleased nonetheless and resumed his story. “After leaving Tibet, I travelled southwards to India...”

For dessert, John ordered tiramisu and coffee, Sherlock only coffee.

The tiramisu arrived in one dish with two spoons.

Sherlock picked up a spoon, studied it and opened his mouth to speak, but John cut him off. “This wasn’t my idea! Angelo came up with this on his own.”

“I was _going_ to say that I’ve never seen the point of providing separate spoons for a couple who presumably either are or shortly will be sharing body fluids.” Sherlock dipped into the tiramisu and then proceeded to enjoy his spoonful. With extreme thoroughness.

It was worse than the bloody crisps because this time, John knew Sherlock was doing it on purpose. He was putting on a show for John, and John... couldn’t look away. Was still staring when Sherlock dipped up a second spoonful – and then handed the spoon to John.

“Enjoy your dessert, John,” Sherlock drawled. His eyes were mirthful as he sipped his coffee.

The tiramisu was delicious.

After the rich meal, walking home seemed like the thing to do. The two of them fell into step as they strolled along the streets. Patches of darkness that alternated with patches of light cast by streetlamps and shop windows.

They reached 221B and climbed the seventeen steps, but when John went to open the door, Sherlock stopped him.

“John, I’ve had a lovely evening,” Sherlock began. Then he seemed to hesitate.

“But,” John prompted. No point trying to avoid the inevitable.

“But?”

“But this isn’t your thing. I knew that and I asked you anyway and it’s amazing that you took the time to research dating, uh, protocols and you were, well. You were perfect. But this isn’t your thing.”

“You’re repeating yourself.”

“Sorry. Look, Sherlock, it’s fine. It’s all...”

Sherlock kissed him.

Sherlock leant down slightly, tilted John’s chin up just a bit and kissed him on the mouth, a brief, sweet press of lips that was over almost as soon as it started.

Something in John decided that wasn’t fine at all. He’d pulled Sherlock back and begun returning the kiss before he even thought about it. By the time he _did_ think about it, he’d discovered that Sherlock tasted like tiramisu and coffee with an undercurrent of wine and garlic and then under _that_ , something else again.

Betas’ scents generally lacked the sweet tartness of omegas’ or the edged metallic muskiness of alphas’. John’s carrymum had smelled like baking bread.

Sherlock smelled like sun-warmed loam with a spicy overlay. He smelled like a walk through woods and fields on a sunny autumn day.

He tasted just as good as he smelled. John was already trying to lick that taste out of Sherlock’s mouth when it occurred to him that they’d gone far past the chaste kiss that Sherlock had initiated. Reluctantly, he pulled away.

Oh, and _Sherlock_. Flushed and dark-eyed, his lips wet and slightly swollen.

Sherlock drew a deep breath and said – just a bit shakily – “I would like to do that again. The date, I mean. Good night, John.”

Then he let himself into the flat and shut the door in John’s face.

What the...?

Sherlock wanted another date. That was good. Sherlock probably wanted more time to research. Oh. Dating protocols.

John started to laugh quietly as he stood alone on the landing.

Dating protocols. Sherlock had kissed John goodnight at the door after their first date.

That was... very fine indeed.

John was grinning as he let himself in. Sherlock’s bedroom door was shut, with a sliver of light showing from underneath. His laptop and latest stack of beekeeping material were missing from the living room, where they had occupied a position of prominence earlier that day.

John snagged his own laptop before heading upstairs to his room. He needed to research their second date.

***

Angelo’s had been a safe choice for the venue of their first date. For their second, John wanted to try something different. Something on the borders of his own comfort zone that he hoped would lie solidly within Sherlock’s. All right, that applied to most of the crime scenes they visited together, but John was hoping for something more, well, date-like.

“Impeccable technique, paired with fiery passion, poetry and sensitivity” sounded like it might do the trick.

“Sherlock, I, ah, went ahead and got us some tickets.”

Sherlock didn’t look up from his microscope.

“Thursday next. London Symphony Orchestra.”

Sherlock hmmm’ed and moved his slide a bit to the left.

“There’s a guest violinist. Vadim Repin.”

Sherlock looked up, blinked and stared at John. “You got us tickets to hear Vadim Repin perform with the LSO?” He didn’t pronounce the violinist’s name at all the same way John had.

“Er, yes? I could exch...” and then John stopped, because Sherlock was actually _smiling_.

“John.”

“Sherlock.”

“Wear a suit.”

***

There were, in fact, a fair number of blokes in the audience who were _not_ wearing suits. Sherlock sniffed when John pointed this out. “None of them are with _me_.”

“Worried I’ll make you look bad?” John teased. “No one’s looking at me.”

“Perhaps I _want_ them to.” Sherlock’s voice would have made the darkest chocolate look pale.

Sherlock wanted people to look at John. Next to him. Sherlock wanted people to look at the _two_ of them. Together.

John licked his lips and shifted in his seat, wondering how long the concert was going to last. Then the concert started. John stopped wondering and started listening.

John had never been particularly _good_ , back when he’d played the clarinet in his school band. But he’d learned how to listen for the way the clarinet part fit in with the other instruments’ parts and how all the parts fit together. Living with Sherlock, he’d learned something a bit different: how to listen to solo violin.

Listening now to a passionate, impeccable violinist partnered with a symphony orchestra was an enlightening experience. And that was true even though John knew he was missing all the finer points. Which was fine, he could ask Sherlock about them later. Sherlock would enjoy explaining.

Sherlock...was rapt. He looked almost as if he was in his Mind Palace, except that the performers were apparently in there with him.

During intermission, John spotted a pile of brochures with the LSO’s schedule for the rest of the season. He pocketed one. If this might be something that Sherlock would like to do again, John was all for it.

After the concert they set out on foot, intending to walk for a bit and then call a cab. Instead they ended up walking the entire three miles. Sherlock lectured happily while John prompted him with questions any time he appeared to be running down.

“What was the next to last piece?” It had been quirky, slyly humourous, both angular and graceful.

“ _Tzigane_ , by Maurice Ravel.”

“Zee-“

“ _Tzigane_. Gypsy, in French. The work doesn’t use any authentic Romani melodies, though. It’s written in what Ravel perceived to be the general style of such melodies.”

“It sounded as if the violin was, well, flirting with the orchestra. Teasing it, maybe leading it on a bit.”

Sherlock gave him a sideways look. “Really, John, are you sure that suggestion came solely from the music?”

“Nope,” replied John cheerfully. “Not at all. I’ve got a lot else on my mind, y’know.”

“Jumpers. And tea.”

“Those too. Have you ever played Zee, ah, Zee-gone?”

“As you may have noticed, the piece requires a partner. Ravel originally wrote it to be played by violin and _piano luthéal_ , a piano fitted with a mechanism that extended its available registers. In particular, such a piano was capable of producing a register that sounded something like a cimbalom, a type of hammered dulcimer that was considered to be typical of Romani music.”  

“Er, Sherlock? There was no piano on stage.”

“Well observed, John. In Ravel’s day, the _luthéal_ was new and I imagine rather exciting. However, it didn’t last. Fortunately, Ravel had also allowed for the performance of the piece by violin and ordinary piano. In addition, within a year he produced a version for violin and orchestra.”

“Which is what we heard this evening.”

“Correct. However, my point is that in _all_ versions, the violin has a partner.”

“To flirt with. And tease.” John ducked his chin a little to look up at Sherlock through his lashes. “And you’ve never found the right partner.”

“The right partner,” replied Sherlock softly, “would indeed help me expand my repertoire. I’ll let you in on something, John.”

“Go on, then.”

“ _Tzigane_ was my favourite piece when I was a child. I used to dance to it. I wanted to be a dancer when I grew up.”

“Was this before or after you wanted to be a pirate?”

Sherlock scowled. “Mycroft.”

“Yeah, afraid so.”

But then Sherlock’s scowl morphed into something more thoughtful. “Mycroft told you... and you remembered.”

“Most of us don’t delete things on a regular basis.”

“Of course you do. You call it ‘forgetting’ and you do it all the time. The only difference is that _your_ deletion process is random and outside your conscious control. You clutter your mind with things that have absolutely no practical importance but only... Oh.”

“Sherlock?”

“You attached emotional importance to my childhood interest in piracy, and not because you had a comparable interest.”

John swallowed.

“Simultaneously,” said Sherlock.

“Sorry?”

“Piracy and dance. The two did not seem to be mutually exclusive career choices to my childhood self.”  

Having said this, Sherlock looked straight ahead down the street for the next several steps. John thought he understood.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Have you ever told anyone else that?”

“I told Janine about the dancing, at the wedding.”

“Oh?” said John. And then had to swallow back all of ten different things he thought of saying next.

“But not about the piracy. She... didn’t know enough about me to ask.”

Oh! “And I did.”

“You did. Wait, stop a moment.” Sherlock looked quickly up and down the street. Then he swung both his arms to the left, took a deep breath, rose onto his left foot and did a full-circle pirouette.

“That’s amazing!”

John was grinning, and Sherlock grinned back. He took another breath and went for a second pirouette, but this time his toe caught something on the sidewalk and he stumbled. John caught him without thinking – and then found himself holding an armful of warm Sherlock, chest-to-chest. Sherlock’s cheeks were flushed with exertion and his eyes were wide. They stared at each other.

A nearby police siren broke the moment. The two men separated and began to walk again. Something occurred to John.

“Sherlock, do you have your phone with you? In case Lestrade calls?”

“Yes, but I turned it off for the concert, of course.”

“Right. Of course.”

“I turned yours off too.”

“Ta for that. Ah, do you think you might...”

“I haven’t bothered turning either of them back on again.” Sherlock’s smile held of touch of wickedness. “My work and I have the night off. We’re on a date.”

“What a coincidence,” said John. “So am I.”

They finally reached 221B – and paused on the landing.

“Going to invite me in?” teased John.

“Oh, certainly. John, please do step into your own flat for a moment! Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thanks, it’s getting late for... Oh. Ah, Sherlock? The coffee part of dating protocols can be... Well. It’s really just an excuse to sit next to each other on the sofa.”

Sherlock frowned. “We already do that.”

“And neck.”

“We’ve never done that.”

“We don’t have to. Not if you don’t...”

“John? I liked this.” And Sherlock pulled him close, chest-to-chest, shifting his weight a bit so that John had to put his arms around Sherlock and support him as Sherlock leaned in for a kiss.

They kissed for a while, both of them quickly growing bolder until Sherlock sucked gently on John’s tongue – and John’s knees gave out.

“I’m beginning to see the advantages of the sofa,” admitted Sherlock after he’d caught both his balance and John.

“Yes. Well. Come here.” John sank down into his armchair, pulling Sherlock into his lap as he went. It should have been awkward, but tall, bony Sherlock curled around John as if he’d been designed to fit there. His neck was at just the right height for John to nose. When John nipped where he’d been nosing, Sherlock gasped.

“John.”

Christ, John hadn’t known that Sherlock’s voice could even go that low. He couldn’t be sure whether he was actually hearing it or feeling it through his bones. And he, John, had done that, had made Sherlock...

Sherlock shifted, turning to face John more directly, pressed against him from chest to crotch now and there was no mistaking what John had done to Sherlock. And vice versa.

They kissed again and John had to turn his face away because it was almost too much, except then Sherlock sucked on his earlobe and John’s hips bucked up. Sherlock’s own hips were moving constantly, restlessly under John’s hands. John wasn’t sure that Sherlock even realized and if this continued...

“Sherlock... Oh!... Sh-Sherlock!”

Sherlock pulled away just far enough for John to see his face. He’d looked less drugged when he was on morphine.

“Sherlock, whatever you want. I swear, whatever you want. But if you want to save something, something for the third date... Sherlock!” He got hold of Sherlock’s chin and tipped it up. They were practically nose to nose. “If you want to save something for the third date, we have to stop now.”

Sherlock blinked. John could almost _see_ his words sinking in, they were absorbed so slowly. Finally Sherlock kissed the tip of John’s nose and stood up, staggering a bit. His close-fitting trousers hid nothing.

“I’ll just...” He waved a hand towards his bedroom. “Be in there.”

“Right. Yeah, ah. See you tomorrow.” John remained in his chair, not sure he could stand up yet. There were times when alpha physiology was a distinct disadvantage. Besides, the view as Sherlock straggled down the hall to his bedroom was not to be missed.

At the door, Sherlock turned. He’d obviously recovered a bit because his tone was definitely teasing as he purred, “John, I’ve had a lovely evening.” Then he slipped inside and shut the door behind himself.

John made it up to his own room, tried and failed not to think about what Sherlock might be doing one floor below and came all over his own sheets the moment he touched himself.

***

“What’s that tune you’re humming, mate?” asked Lestrade. He and John were standing by while Sherlock had his way with a corpse.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“You don’t have to stop. It sounded pretty good.” Lestrade considered John. “And you’re looking fairly chipper, too.”

“John was humming a theme from _Tzigane_ ,” said Sherlock, who’d apparently decided he was done with this particular corpse for the time being.

Lestrade looked puzzled. “New show on the telly?”

Now Sherlock looked puzzled. “John heard it when he took me to hear Vadim Repin perform with the LSO two days ago. Your forensics team failed to note that the victim has had his left little toe amputated.”

“My forensics team knows not to go pulling the body’s shoes off without good reason.”

“Your forensics team failed to note the tattoo under the victim’s right ear that would have given them reason. Call Sofia.”

“Who’s she?”

“The capital of Bulgaria. The tattoo and the amputation indicate that the victim was a member of the Cherni Kucheta. It’s an Eastern European gang that’s been making recent inroads into Western Europe. The NPS in Sofia has the most data.”

“Right. Killed by his own gang?”

“Or by a rival. It’s a mistake to theorize before all the facts are in. The autopsy will tell us more, and there are people I need to talk to. John, come along. Elderly widows like you.”

“Oi!” said Lestrade. “Be nice to John or he’ll think twice about taking you places.” He winked broadly at John.

“If John required me to ‘be nice’ to him, he never would have started taking me on dates in the first place.”

John felt his face heating.

“Dates, is it? That’d be why he’s so chipper, then. How many dates has it been so far?”

“Two,” said Sherlock – and put his hand on John’s shoulder. He left it there as he made eye contact with the other beta.

The other beta’s eyebrows had practically climbed into his thick, grey hair. Lestrade was obviously struggling not to laugh, but he said kindly enough, “Good for you! I’ll call Sofia and then let you know what I find out.”


	6. Chapter 6

Considering the events that had occurred after John and Sherlock’s second date, John thought it might be safest if their third date was at home. Within this in mind, he carefully selected a film and ordered massive amounts of takeout from the Chinese restaurant where he and Sherlock had eaten the night he shot the cabbie. He figured that a movie would be just the thing to promote cuddling on the sofa, necking on the sofa and any other activities on the sofa that Sherlock might be up for.

As John sat on the sofa with takeout cartons for company, watching Sherlock assiduously scribble notes on beekeeping technique every time the film touched on this topic, he reflected that he might have chosen the film _too_ carefully. He’d be getting more action if they were watching a Bond flick, and not just from the screen.

Still, John put on a brave smile as the credits rolled and Sherlock announced that he’d like to see the film again “in case I missed anything even though of course I didn’t.”

“Certainly you, uh, _we_ can see it again. Er... right now?”

Sherlock turned to look at him, apparently catching on to the fact that something was off. “It was an excellent choice of film, John. The details regarding the drug trade in Florida were almost accurate.”

“The withdrawal scenes weren’t, ah, triggering?” By the time John had realized there _were_ withdrawal scenes, Sherlock was already watching them.

Sherlock shrugged. “I’ve seen others going through withdrawal before. And my own withdrawal experiences took place in quite different settings from the one shown in the film.” He continued to scrutinize John. “Did you find the love interest triggering?”

“The love interest.”

“The protagonist is a former soldier. His love interest is a nurse.” Sherlock’s tone was completely level, even casual, but it was belied by the intense focus of his gaze and the tense squareness of his shoulders as he waited for a response.

The evening was showing promise after all.

John set aside the takeout containers and looked Sherlock in the eye and licked his lips. “Sherlock, I only have one love interest now. And he’s not a nurse.”

Sherlock’s shoulders relaxed marginally. “Really. Some other sort of health care professional?” He put aside the notebook and pen he’d been using.

“Nope.” John smiled a bit wider and leaned forward a little. “So, do you want to watch the film again _right now_?”

He wasn’t expecting Sherlock to launch himself at John, but Afghanistan had taught John to react fast and adapt as needed. He hadn’t even properly caught his breath before he got both arms around Sherlock’s neck and dragged him down for a kiss. For good measure, John threw a leg across Sherlock’s thighs.

They kissed ravenously, tongues tangling, as if they hadn’t seen each other for weeks. John felt hyperaware of Sherlock’s sun-warmed autumn scent, of every inch of the bony body pressed against John’s, of the little whimpers and moans Sherlock made against John’s mouth. Sherlock’s hands seemed not to know where to settle. They roamed up and down John’s torso, touched but did not grasp his hips, reached ‘round to his arse all too briefly and then stroked up his back.

John pulled his mouth away. “Touch anywhere you want,” he growled. “ _Anywhere_ , Sherlock.” And then he dove back him to nip at Sherlock’s pale neck, run his teeth along a prominent collarbone. Sherlock gasped and shifted, his leg falling in between John’s thighs. John instinctively thrust up against it, then tried still his hips – only to have Sherlock, ever the quick study, press down harder and roll his own hips.

“ _Yes_ , John, _do that_ ,” and John wasn’t sure whether the order came from Sherlock or from his own body. He thrust helplessly against that lean and muscular leg, again and again. The height difference meant that he couldn’t return the favour but Sherlock was rutting against John’s stomach, against John’s _fully clothed_ stomach. They were going to come like this, like teenagers making out on the sofa, but neither of them were teenagers and Sherlock deserved better. John summoned all his strength and pushed Sherlock away.

Sherlock sat up immediately, straddling John, looking imperiously debauched. He locked eyes with John, put his long-fingered hands to his own throat and began to unbutton his shirt. John’s mouth went dry. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t help licking his lips, but he managed to croak, “Bedroom?”

Sherlock froze, looking so blank for a moment that John thought for a moment he’d deleted the entire concept of “bedroom.” Then he smiled wickedly, swayed gracefully to his feet and sauntered off in stocking feet down the hall, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. He turned slightly in the doorway to observe John over one bare, pale, faintly freckled shoulder and arch an eyebrow before vanishing into the room.

Rather less gracefully, John staggered to his feet and hobbled after him. He too paused in the doorway to look not behind but forward, where Sherlock lay sprawled across the bed, still fully dressed except for his unbuttoned shirt, now parted to display his chest and throat.

John climbed onto the foot of the bed and then crawled up, his hands and knees bracketing Sherlock. “Hi,” he grinned, looking down.

“Haven’t we got past tedious introductions yet?”

“Dunno. Hard to be sure when we’re both almost fully dressed.” John ran one hand along the edge of Sherlock’s shirt, following it down past his chest to where it still hid his lower torso.

And Sherlock flinched.

John stopped. “Okay.”

“John.”

“It’s fine, Sherlock, we don’t have to...”

“I _want_ to,” Sherlock snarled. “But. I’ve never.”

_Oh_. Everything they’d done up until now, Sherlock had done before – and quite possibly only for cases. This, _this_ was where Sherlock had drawn his personal line. Until now. With John.

“Sherlock,” asked John gently, “Are you sure?” He reached out to stroke the tangled curls.

“Yes, I’m sure,” snapped Sherlock. “Just... unpracticed.”

“That’s incredibly hot. You know that, right?”

“If incompetence turns you on, then watching the Yarders at crime scenes must be physically painful.”

John didn’t fall for the attempt at deflection. “It’s incredibly hot that you chose me to be the first person you wanted to experience this with.” He ran his hand along the side of Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock’s eyes fell shut. “First and last,” he muttered.

“Really? I didn’t think I was doing so badly that I’d put you off it forever,” John teased.

The silver-blue eyes snapped open again. “That’s not... oh.” Sherlock’s voice trailed off as John stroked the bite marks on Sherlock’s neck.

“Let’s try, Sherlock. If you want me to stop, say so and I’ll stop, right away, whatever I’m doing. But let’s try.”

He waited until Sherlock nodded, then ran his hand down along Sherlock’s shirt again, this time pulling it aside gently when it crossed the other edge just above Sherlock’s navel. Just _below_ Sherlock’s navel... Oh. Oh, _yes_.

Sherlock’s pouch slit was nothing like the flat brown line John had had as a child. After John had presented as an alpha, the line had gradually faded throughout puberty, eventually becoming a barely visible horizontal trace on his stomach.

But Sherlock’s pouch slit... No mere line this but rather two distinct lips, both glistening slightly in a way that made their rosy brown colour glow. John reached out to touch, watching Sherlock’s face carefully. Sherlock, propped up on his elbows, watched as well – not John’s face, but his hands. When John’s fingers began to stroke the slit, Sherlock’s mouth opened in a soundless “o.” He seemed entranced.

Carefully, John unfastened Sherlock’s trousers and drew them off, along with Sherlock’s pants and socks. Then he placed one steadying hand on Sherlock’s hip and leaned down to taste. Several things happened at once. Sherlock gasped, his hips tried to buck upwards and something hit John on the underside of his chin.

Sherlock’s cock had decided to join the party.

Sherlock was a good size for a beta, longer than most but without an alpha’s girth. John gave the rosy head a friendly lick. Where Sherlock’s pouch slit tasted salty and sweet, his cock carried a touch of bitterness as well. Two different tastes and yet both were unmistakeably Sherlock. John tasted both again to be sure... And then once more... And then – but Sherlock was trembling hard under John’s hands and mouth. John looked up the bed to see that Sherlock had thrown his head back and screwed his eyes tightly shut.

John sat up. “Hey,” he said, placing a hand on Sherlock’s hair. “Bit overwhelmed?”

Sherlock opened his eyes and glared. “No!” He was panting a little.

John continued to stroke his hair.

After a moment, Sherlock admitted, “A bit.”

“Right then.” John got off the bed and stripped with a soldier’s efficiency, letting Sherlock look his fill but not putting on any kind of show. He returned to the bed.

“Budge over.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re going to like what I have in mind.” John gave Sherlock his very best cheeky grin, and Sherlock reluctantly budged. John settled himself against the headboard, spread his legs and patted the space between them. “Come on... No, not that way, back towards me.”

“I want to see you,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Let’s try it this way. We can change if you don’t like it. There, right, like that, lean back against me.”

In fact, Sherlock was still a bit tense, but John ignored that as he kissed Sherlock’s neck and ran his hands down his chest. Sherlock’s secondary nipples – vestigial on a male beta – rose into tight buds at John’s touch. Sherlock himself arched a bit, then relaxed.

“So beautiful,” John murmured, stroking Sherlock’s stomach. He kept one hand there, still stroking, as he ran the other back and forth along the pouch slit. He could feel Sherlock tense and then relax again, this time more deeply. Back, forth, back, forth and... in. John slipped his whole hand into the slick, warm tightness of Sherlock’s pouch. Sherlock jerked as if hit by an electrical shock.

“Shhh, shhh. Let me in, love.” Christ, Sherlock was so very tight. John was dizzy with the knowledge that no one else had been here before him, that he was the first one to give Sherlock this. He searched the posterior wall of the pouch, seeking... ah, there. Larger than the secondary nipples, sweet knots of slippery flesh between John’s fingers, Sherlock’s teats swelled and hardened.

Sherlock was shaking continuously now. When John’s other hand slipped down along one hip to grasp Sherlock’s weeping cock, the beta cried out and twisted, burying his face against John’s neck, seeking John’s scent. John could smell them both now, sun-warmed autumn mixed with musk and gun steel. His own cock was trapped between his and Sherlock’s bodies. Every move Sherlock made was a not-quite-painful tease that John fought to ignore so that he could focus on Sherlock’s pleasure.

He got a rhythm going, both hands stroking and squeezing, one on Sherlock’s cock, the other alternating between the two teats. Sherlock’s whole body danced with John, the undulating arch of his back driving his belly and groin forward into John’s hands in perfect synchrony. And then, when Sherlock’s breath came in damp ragged pants against John’s neck, when he arched too far, when he lost the beat, when the rhythm they’d share broke and hung suspended in mid-air – then John thumbed the slit at the head of Sherlock’s cock as he ran his fingernails over Sherlock’s swollen teats.

Sherlock tensed hard enough to break bones, yelled a single syllable against John’s skin and came, his semen splattering John’s hand and his own stomach.

“So beautiful,” John said again, and held him, gentling him, letting him come down slowly. Sherlock slumped against him, so very much like a dead weight that if it weren’t for his heaving breaths, John might have worried.

“John,” Sherlock mumbled. “You.” Then he straightened in John’s arms and said more clearly, “Oh! _You_.”

“Me,” agreed John, hardly needing to be reminded of his aching erection.

Sherlock levered himself to his knees and looked invitingly over his shoulder. “You could...?” He gave his bum a wriggle for completely unnecessary emphasis.

“No, I couldn’t, love,” said John ruefully. “I’d never last for as long as it would take to get you prepared.”

Sherlock frowned. “You don’t need to coddle...”

“It’s not coddling, it’s being practical. If I hurt you...”

“You won’t hurt me.”

“...you’ll never want to have sex with me again.”

Sherlock blinked and then smiled slowly. He lay back so that his head was practically in John’s lap and patted his own chest. “Here,” he said, and John could have happily drowned in the depths of his voice. “Sit here. Now lean forward.”

John complied, his cock bobbing forward to brush, oh, Sherlock’s stomach. It wasn’t that John had never done this before. He had – but he knew that Sherlock _hadn’t_ , and that made it all the more thrilling that Sherlock was taking charge, telling John what to do, taking John’s cock in hand (long acid-scarred, violin-callused fingers wrapping around John’s thick length and John almost came at the touch) to feed the head _into Sherlock’s pouch_.

Slick, warm, tight and Sherlock was urging him to move, John was moving, once he started he couldn’t stop, so very good and yet... And yet... And then Sherlock placed one of his own large hands over the outside of his pouch, making a tunnel for John’s cock and that was _perfect_ , that was _amazing_ , that was John thrusting in again and again, so hard that he had to grab Sherlock’s hips for purchase, he’d...

“Leave your fingerprints on my hips, yes, John, _please_ , do it!”

And John came so hard the world went white around him.

He was still inside Sherlock’s pouch when he came down again. His semen was leaking out. Sherlock was dipping his fingers in the viscous mess and, from the feel of it, drawing patterns on John’s back.

“I didn’t realize what that would feel like for _me_ ,” Sherlock said meditatively. “Can we try that first next time?”

“Ah, you’ve deleted refractory periods, have you?”

“I said ‘next time,’ not ‘right now.’”

“That’s all right, then.”

John wanted nothing more than the collapse next to his lover, but someone should go get wet washcloths and it obviously wasn’t going to be Sherlock. John staggered into action.

It was only after they were both more or less clean that John realized Sherlock might prefer to sleep alone –if indeed he intended to sleep at all. But Sherlock forestalled the question by pointedly turning back the covers. Once John had slipped in, Sherlock got the lights and then followed. After a brief moment of awkward distance, they settled in more comfortably together, Sherlock’s gangly body wrapped partially around John’s more compact one.

John slept soundly that night. When he woke in the morning, Sherlock was gone of course. John smiled when he discovered Sherlock in the living room, watching the film from the evening before. What surprised him, however, was that Sherlock paused the film to wish John a good morning.

Happily bemused, John made two mugs of tea and a plate of toast, then took them to the sofa. When he sat down, Sherlock leaned – really, almost cuddled – against him, sitting up straight only to make the occasional addition to his notes.

***

“I don’t understand how you can actually be looking forward to this,” muttered Sherlock, just barely audible over the noise of the train.

“It’s simple. I want to meet your parents.”

“You’ve met my parents.”

“Very briefly.”

“That’s all it would take. They’re boringly ordinary.”

“Perhaps that’s why I’d like to meet them again.”

Sherlock frowned, as if John’s remark didn’t compute.

John checked (again) to make sure they’d brought the bag with the Christmas gifts. “Sherlock, if you hadn’t wanted us to go, you would have simply told Mycroft ‘no.’ Instead you flung yourself over every piece of furniture in the flat...”

“Exaggeration. Not even half.”

“...all the while loudly proclaiming that Mycroft was trying to force us to attend Christmas dinner at your parents’.”

“And you took that to mean that I wanted to go?”

“I took that to mean that you wanted me to make the decision.”

“Almost all relationship breakdowns start with communication problems.”

“Reading popular magazines now, are we?”

“Websites,” Sherlock snapped. And then more quietly, “I’ve never been in a relationship that wasn’t for a case. It’s surprisingly complicated.”

“Sherlock.” John waited until Sherlock was actually looking at him, then gently touched Sherlock’s cheek. “If there’s a problem, we tell each other there’s a problem and talk about it. That’s all.”

“Talking is the complicated part.”

“All right, we _try_ to talk about it. Is... Is this visit a problem? Because we can get off at the next station and buy tickets back to London.”

“No, having come this far we’d might as well see it through. At least I can show you off when we get there.”

John smiled, warm right down to his belly. “Can you, then.”

“I still think you should have brought your gun, though.”

“Sherlock, _why_ would I bring my gun to your parents’ house for Christmas dinner?”

“Mycroft is bringing his laptop.” Sherlock sounded like a petulant five-year-old.

John sighed. “That’s not a reason. And if you actually hate Mycroft as much as you claim, why are you using him as an example?”

Sherlock’s silent sulk spoke volumes.

John decided it was time for a change of subject. “Where’s Bill Wiggins spending the holiday? Mrs Hudson’s going to her sister’s, so he won’t be able to mooch on her.”

“Wiggins can look after himself,” muttered Sherlock.

“Still, no one should be alone at this time of year. Maybe you should have invited him too.”

“The only reason I would invite Bill Wiggins to my parents’ house would be if... Oh!” Sherlock brightened. “I could have him serve everyone punch laced with knockout drugs so that I could abscond with Mycroft’s laptop!”

“Er, he’s not actually with us, so I’m assuming that a hypothetical plan?”

“This year. Besides, I already gave Wiggins an outworn parka of Mycroft’s and a selection of Costa gift cards.”

John frowned slightly. “I’ve never seen Mycroft wear a parka, much less wear one often enough to wear it _out_.”

“Precisely.” Sherlock turned back to his contemplation of the window.

Left to himself to work the problem out, John did so and smiled. A brand new, high quality parka would draw the wrong kind of attention to a homeless man. A parka with visible signs of wear, much less so. And a cast-off – “Here, my brother gave me this, give it to someone else if you don’t want it” – might be easier to accept than an overly extravagant gift.

***

Sherlock’s parents turned out to be his birthmother and carrymother. Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s father was neither present nor mentioned in conversation. John noted the absence of photos of the missing alpha and having both common sense and good manners, refrained from asking.

Instead, John sat back and enjoyed watching Mycroft and his birthmum bicker amiably with each other.

“ _Thank you_ for not bringing your laptop with this time, Mike.”

Ha! John tried to catch Sherlock’s eye, but Sherlock remained resolutely glued to his newspaper.

“‘Mycroft’ is the name you gave me, if you could possibly struggle all the way to the end. And the last time I brought my laptop you covered it with potatoes.”

“Work has no place at a family gathering. We are here because Sherlock is home from hospital and we are _all_ very happy.”

“Am _I_ happy too? I haven’t checked.”

“ _Stop_ it, Myc. Somebody’s put a bullet in my boy and if I ever find out whom, I shall turn absolutely monstrous,” declared Mrs Holmes as she ladled out punch.

Sherlock, still focussed on the newspaper, did not move. Mycroft’s face betrayed nothing, but John couldn’t help his own sharp intake of breath. Mrs Holmes noticed immediately.

“There! _John_ at least agrees with me that this sort of thing should _not_ be swept under the carpet! John, be a dear and take one of these out to Timothy.” She handed him two cups of punch. “He’s fussing with the fire in the sitting room. And if he starts making little humming noises, just give him a little poke. That usually does it.”

Mr Holmes was indeed in the living room, but he’d apparently finished with the fire and was making little humming noises as he thumbed through a book. When John handed him a cup of punch (“Ta, lad”), he found himself receiving the book in return.

_The Dynamics of Combustion_ , by M L Holmes.

“Did your wife write this, sir?” John asked - and then kicked himself.  He hadn't meant it to sound as if a beta _couldn't_ have written the book.

But Mr Holmes smiled proudly. “Complete flake, my wife, but she happens to be a genius.”

“She was a mathematician?”

“Oh, yes. Worked for years with... well, I suppose that’s still classified. At least she’s never told me it’s not anymore. At any rate, she worked, I carried and raised the children she bore. She still does some consulting.”

“Like Sherlock,” said John with a grin.

Mr Holmes grinned back. “Not as physically active as Sherlock. We leave that sort of thing to you younger folk.” He sipped his punch. “I could never bear to argue with her. I’m something of a moron myself. But she’s ...” – he glanced towards the kitchen, then lowered his voice slightly – “...unbelievably hot!”

John couldn’t hold back his chuckles. “You’re the _sane_ one, then.”

Mr Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t _you_?”

John thought about his illegal gun, his addiction to danger and his penchant for psychopaths. “To be honest, no, not completely. And Sherlock and I _do_ argue, sometimes.”

Sherlock’s carrymum nodded. “He needs a bit of that.” 

They heard Mrs Holmes open the cottage door and yell, “Are you two smoking?” 

The responses from the garden sounded very much like denials.

“Case in point,” said Mr Holmes. And then with a sly look, “Ten quid says Sherlock’s jacket smells of cigarette smoke when he comes back in.”

“One moron to another, sir,” replied John, “I’m too smart to take that bet.”

Mr Holmes threw back his head and laughed. 

*** 

Dinner was splendid. This didn’t prevent Sherlock from picking at his food. Mrs Holmes cornered John in the kitchen afterwards and bestowed several containers of leftovers on him.

“Put these in your refrigerator when you get home, won’t you, dear? Sherlock’s always been this way. Special occasions made him too nervous to eat, but he’d sneak into the kitchen at night afterwards and help himself to the leftovers.”

John himself had eaten quite well and slept the sleep of the satiated for almost all of the train journey home.

It was fairly late by the time they arrived at 221B. Sherlock was in the lead as they walked up the stairs. He opened the door to the flat, stepped in – and stopped, looking about him with an air of focussed observation that reminded John of... crime scenes.

“Sherlock, what is it?”

“Irene Adler,” Sherlock replied offhandedly, still studying the flat.

“Irene? It can’t be. She’s...” – oh hell, Sherlock didn’t know the truth – “...er, in a witness protection program in America.”

Sherlock looked amused. “I know that you and Mycroft made that story up to ‘protect’ me from the fact that you think she’s dead.”

“No, we don’t _think_ she’s dead, she _is_ , well, Mycroft _says_ she is, ah – _is_ she dead?”

“I have no idea.” Sherlock walked further into the flat and looked towards the partly open bedroom door. “We’ve certainly made enough noise to wake you by now,” he announced.

After a moment, the door opened. The woman who stood there had dyed black hair which didn’t suit her. She was haggard and pale, with dark circles under her eyes. Her cheap coat was too large and hung off her. She smiled tremulously.

“Hello, John,” said Mary.

John felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. He distantly heard the carrier bags with the containers of leftovers hit the floor.

“No,” he croaked. And then more strongly, “No. Whatever your name is now, whatever reason you’re here, the answer is no.”

“John” – Sherlock touched his shoulder – “wait before you decide.” He walked towards Mary and gestured at her neck. “If I may?”

Somewhat to John’s surprise, she tilted her chin up and allowed Sherlock to sniff. Then Sherlock turned to John. “It’s yours.”

“What’s mine?” Sherlock watched him without moving but Mary put her hand to her stomach. “Oh, no. Oh, _hell_ no.”

“John.” Sherlock motioned him to approach Mary, who was still holding her head tilted.

John approached and sniffed. Still Mary, still lemon tarts and orange blossoms, but there was something new, something mixed in. Something very much like... gun steel and musk.

“How?” John whispered.

Sherlock frowned and seemed to be about to speak, but John was addressing Mary, who’d lowered her chin.

“How?” he demanded. “We were using contraceptives!”

“There’s a 9% failure rate...” she began.

“100% if not used,” Sherlock interrupted. “To be precise, _you_ were not using contraceptives, _she_ was – or rather, she told you she was.”

“I _was_!” protested Mary.

“You’ve already made the mistake of not taking the detritus of your pregnancy test with you for deposit in a public waste bin when you left. You won’t help your case by continuing to lie.”

“You broke into our home and went through the trash bins,” Mary accused.

“I had no need to break in. You left John with the job of clearing everything out. He arranged to have a charity come around to pick up the contents. He also gave Bill Wiggins the keys so that Wiggins could be there to let the charity’s volunteers in.”

“At your suggestion,” said Mary shrewdly.

“Yes, at his suggestion,” snapped John. “Because even Sherlock could see that I couldn’t” – couldn’t handle, couldn’t deal with – “couldn’t be bothered to deal with it.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Obvious. So I suggested Wiggins, waited until John had handed over the keys the evening before and then went out that night while John was asleep to have a look before everything was cleared out the next day.” He preened, proud of himself.

John rounded on him. “Wait, you did what?”

“You were making a completely unnecessary fuss about me leaving the flat on my own.”

“So you snuck out while I was asleep.”

“No, I simply walked out. There was no sneaking involved. You sleep fairly soundly unless you have a nightmare. If you _did_ wake due to a nightmare and discover I was gone, then when I returned I would have told you that I’d gone out for cigarettes. You would have been distracted into lecturing me about smoking.” Sherlock preened a bit more.

“Sherlock...” John growled, but Mary cleared her throat. When John looked at her, she was very pale.

“Not to interrupt your domestic, but could we sit down? It, it wasn’t an easy trip.”

“ _Sneaking_ into a country illegally rarely is,” Sherlock observed. “John, you need to make tea.”

“If you think tea is called for,” John snapped, “You can make it your bloody...”

“I never said it was called for,” replied Sherlock quietly.

John blinked. You need to make tea. _You_ need to make tea, to go through the familiar ritual of making tea. You need to calm down and get yourself together, Watson. You’ve got a pregnant, fugitive assassin standing in your flat and the child is yours. Yelling isn’t going to solve anything.

He set the kettle on to boil. Three mugs, three tea bags, three spoons. Milk for himself, sugar for Sherlock. Mary took... John’s mind went blank. He couldn’t remember how Mary took her tea.

“Mary will take extra milk,” called Sherlock from the living room. “And have we got any biscuits?”

Extra milk for Mary. A package of jammy dodgers. Or there were Christmas biscuits in with... Oh, hell, the leftovers.

John collected the containers from the floor. Nothing had spilt. He shoved them all into the refrigerator, shoving aside experiments to make room. He’d sort it out later.

The kettle whistled. John poured and then carried the tray into the living room.

Sherlock had turned his own chair to face to sofa and installed Mary in it. John felt a flash of resentment until he realized that Sherlock intended John to join him on the sofa, sitting side by side. He set the tray down, sat close enough to Sherlock that their knees touched and passed the tea around.

“Someone needs to tell me what happened,” John said after he’d taken a few sips. Mary, her mouth full of biscuit, nodded at Sherlock. She’d all but jumped on the biscuits. John wondered when she’d last eaten.

“Mary stopped using contraceptives after she shot me. It was a back-up plan. She was still hoping to be able to keep you from finding out what she’d done. However, if you _did_ find out, she wanted to be pregnant by then. She believed that this would moderate your reaction.”

“As things turned out, I was able to expose her more quickly than she’d expected, before she had any confirmation of pregnancy to offer. You moved back into Baker Street, at least temporarily. At this point Mary was still holding onto the possibility that she might be pregnant.”

“Things moved more quickly than she expected a second time when she surprised you while you were getting your things and the two of you quarreled. She took a second pregnancy test again that evening. The test was negative, although at this point it was at least two weeks after the possible conception date. She decided that it was time to cut her losses. She packed a bag, informed the landlord that you’d be along to clear things out and left.”

“With your help.”

“With my help in leaving the country. By the time she contacted me, she’d already made her decision and left your home.”

“What’s Sherlock’s not saying is that I _asked_ him not to tell you,” Mary inserted. “There didn’t seem to be much point. I’d, well, played my last card.”

Sherlock studied her. “Your nursing registration is false, of course.”

Mary put her shoulders back a bit. “The papers are. My training’s not.”

“And yet it doesn’t seem to have occurred to you that home pregnancy tests can give false negatives even at two weeks.”

“I was... somewhat distraught.”

“You’re very sentimental for a successful assassin,” observed Sherlock.

“So’s John. Sentimental, I mean, not an assassin. If psychopaths are _his_ type, what’s yours, Sherlock?”

“Wait, stop,” said John. “We’re getting off-track. Mary, you’re what? Two and a half months along?”

“Eleven weeks, I think.”

“So you’ve got another ten weeks, maybe eleven. Who’s going to carry for you? Who’s your beta?”

Mary took a deep breath. “I haven’t got one. No, don’t look at me like that. I tried. I’d made an arrangement, but it fell through. And I don’t have the time or the resources to create a new identity solid enough to hold up under the scrutiny of a surrogacy program.”

John looked at Sherlock. “Mycroft.”

But Sherlock shook his head. “Mycroft knows who shot his brother. He has no surveillance inside this building and won’t come after Mary as long as she stays here. But it would be a mistake to approach him.”  

“I can’t keep this child alive on my own once it’s born, John. I might be able to nurse it, but outside of a hospital I won’t be able to keep it warm or help it breathe – and I don’t dare go to a hospital.”

“ _What do you expect me to do about it?_ ” yelled John. “Bring it into St Bart’s and tell them I found it on my doorstep?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “That could work. A blood test would quickly establish that you’re the father, but you could tell them you’d picked an omega up in a club one night and never got her real name.”

John caught Mary’s wince, but Sherlock continued. “Mary, do you have DNA samples on file with _any_ government agencies?”

“Not that I know of. I’ve been careful about that,” Mary replied. Her voice was calm and steady. Her hands were clenched into fists. “And to answer your question, John, I never expected anything of you – except that I thought you might want the option of doing the best by your child. If giving it to St Bart’s to spend its first year in an incubator is the best you can come up with, well, I’ve lost the right to judge, I suppose.”

“What alternative are you suggesting?” growled John. “Because if it’s that I should go out and ‘pick up’ a beta ‘in a club’ – and thanks ever so much for that characterization, Sherlock – then you can...”

“She means me,” interrupted Sherlock.

John turned on him. “She _shot_ you. You almost died – _twice_.”

“I’m fully recovered.”

“That’s not the point! She has no right to expect... Hell, you said you didn’t _want_ children!”

“Children in the _general_ sense, no.”

John stared. Sherlock met his gaze. John was the first to look away – and towards Mary. “We need privacy to discuss this. _Between ourselves_.”

Mary stood, glanced at the door. Hesitated. Sherlock stood as well, and since this left John’s side feeling chilled, so did he.

“She can’t leave the building, John,” Sherlock reminded him. “When’s Mrs Hudson due back?”

“Er, the day after tomorrow? The 27th.”

“It’s past midnight, so technically the 27th _is_ tomorrow. Still, that gives us a day to make more permanent arrangements. Mary, you can take the room upstairs for now. The bed should already be made up. You may find the sheets a bit musty, however.”

John was wondering when Sherlock had started worrying about sheets when Sherlock added pointedly, “It’s been several weeks since John slept up there.”

Mary’s smile was faint and rueful. “I guess I deserved that. Thank you. Thank you both. I, I know this is sudden. And not at all easy.”

“It’s not about to get easier,” Sherlock replied.

The smile flickered out. Mary nodded and slipped out the door. The two men stood listening as she climbed the stairs, opened the bedroom door and shut it behind her.

John sighed and ran his head through his hair. “Sherlock...”

“It’s late, you’re tired.”

“I slept on train.”

“Not long enough. We should go to bed.”

“We need to talk about this.”

“Yes, but...” Sherlock swallowed and looked away. “It would be easier if we were close. And if we fall asleep on the sofa, your shoulder will be painful in the morning.”

John had barely got used to Sherlock luring him to bed (or vice versa) for sex. Hearing Sherlock’s words now made his heart feel almost painfully full.  

They left the tea things in the living room and retreated to the bedroom, where they undressed and curled close together. Sherlock was right. John was so tired that Sherlock’s sunny autumn scent was intensely comforting rather than arousing.

“I don’t want children.” Sherlock’s voice was quiet in the darkness. “But I – I find I want to carry your child. And it will have Mary’s genes, too. It can’t be all that unintelligent.”

John smiled against Sherlock’s neck and kissed his skin.

“I won’t be left at home to raise it by myself, John. And I’ll probably be rubbish at parenting. But I want to try to help you raise it.”

John raised his head. “I’ll be rubbish at parenting too. But each of us will make different kinds of mistakes. Things might balance out okay.”

“Go to sleep, then. I need to think by myself and work things out.”

“Okay, but no final decisions. We’ll make those together.”

The last thing John remembered before he drifted to sleep was the press of Sherlock’s lips against his own.


	7. Chapter 7

When John woke up again, it was broad daylight outside. Both the sound of voices and the scent of bacon emanated from the kitchen. He dressed quickly and walked into the kitchen in time to hear Sherlock say, “Anyone of the three of us can find a vein and take a blood sample. Urine samples, you can handle yourself. I can run the tests, and John can help us interpret the results if necessary.”

“Glad to hear I can be of use _somehow_. Morning, Mary. I see you found the bacon and eggs.”

She shrugged. “We could all use some breakfast and Sherlock wasn’t going to make it.”

“John, you can also assist with swapping the beds.”

John paused in the act of getting himself some tea. “Which beds?”

“Considering that we only have two...”

“All right, wrong question. _Why?_ ”

“Pregnant omegas have an increased metabolic load.”

“I’ll need to use the loo a lot,” Mary explained.

“We can’t afford to have Mrs Hudson spot her while she’s running up and down the stairs, so she’ll have to stay in my – in _our_ bedroom. But the bed upstairs is the smaller one, so we’re going to swap beds. We can tell Mrs Hudson we did it so she’d be less bothered by the noise, she’ll like that.”

“Thanks for letting me know about the noise,” said Mary dryly.

John wondered just how quietly he and Sherlock could have sex for the next two and half months. He didn’t think they’d been all _that_ loud up ‘til now. Except maybe for that once. Or twice?

“Oh!” Sherlock spun and pointed at Mary. “We’ll need to get Mrs Hudson out of the house entirely for the birth. You’re going to scream.”

“I’m a skilled and experienced assassin, Sherlock. I think I can manage to keep from screaming despite a few cramps.”

Sherlock looked doubtful.

“Don’t believe everything you read on the _Ready Steady Baby!_ site,” Mary told him. “John, can you find me some reasonably clean plates?”

“Clean plates coming up.”

“I’m missing something, what am I missing?” Sherlock had begun to pace.

“ _Your_ medical care,” replied Mary, serving out bacon, eggs and toast.

“I’m fine.”

“Sherlock, your body has five months’ of preparations to make in half the time! How are you going to make that happen?”

Sherlock stopped pacing, stared at her, then threw himself at John’s laptop and began typing.

John felt it was time to step in when he heard Sherlock crow triumphantly, “Synthetic hormones!”

“Uh, Sherlock?”

No response.

John lobbed a piece of toast (without jam) and yelled, “Sherlock!”

Because the toast landed on the keyboard, Sherlock noticed. He wiped crumbs out of his curls and stared at John.

“Eat the toast and listen. Mary’s right. Normally a beta’s body would be affected by the omega’s pheromone changes for the full five months.”

“I _know_ that. That’s why I need...”

“You are _not_ buying synthetic hormones on the black market and dosing yourself! It’s bad enough that we have to improvise without proper medical care for Mary...”

“You’re a doctor, she’s nurse.”  

“ _Neither_ of us is either an omegologist or a betologist.”

“John, we can’t risk...” Sherlock began.

“What if Sherlock were to _consult_ with a betologist for a case?” Mary wiped up some egg yolk with a bit toast as she continued. “Maybe suggest that the betologist use him as a hypothetical example to answer the questions he’s asking? He’d still have to buy black-market hormones, but there are ways to test for quality and at least he’d have professional advice on how to use them.” She popped the toast in her mouth.

Sherlock grabbed his phone. “Not completely unintelligent,” he informed Mary as his fingers flew.

However, when the phone rang a moment later, Sherlock frowned and muttered, “He knows I prefer to text.”

He answered the phone anyway. “Why didn’t you just... No, I’m not... That was _one_ time, it was years ago and my financial resources were more restricted than they are now... Yes, he’s here... Fine!”

Sherlock threw the phone at John. “Lestrade wants you to confirm that I’m not selling my body for use as a surrogate in order to get money to buy cocaine,” he snapped.

John picked up the phone. “Hi, Greg?... Nope. To the best of my knowledge he’s not. How did he even get away with it the first... Oh! He only _tried_ to. That makes more sense, because I can’t imagine who’d want an underweight cocaine addict with an attitude problem to carry their children.”

“John,” said Sherlock aggrievedly, “This is an irrelevant waste of time.”

John held up a finger. “All I can tell you is that it’s for a case... No, not a police case... That’s right, a private client... No, nothing illegal... If it starts heading in that direction I’ll certainly call you... Absolutely. I understand... Thursday next? Sure thing. I haven’t been out for a pint in ages.”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock whined.

“Okay, great. Thanks for this... Yes, please, before he self-combusts. Ta!” John hung up and handed Sherlock back the phone. “He’s texting you the...”

Sherlock’s text alert went off. “Name, address and phone number for his betologist!” Sherlock leapt to his feet and headed for his Belstaff.

“Ah, Sherlock?” said John. “It’s Boxing Day. The betologist’s office will be closed.”

Sherlock froze, then spun around to face John. “Aren’t you done eating breakfast yet? We have beds to swap!”

Mary giggled as she helped herself to the last of the bacon.

***

The adjustments to their lives proceeded with amazing smoothness. Mary was installed in the downstairs bedroom – _after_ she’d allowed Sherlock to check her suitcase and coat for weapons and bugs. He checked both bedrooms as well, since Mary had spent time in each, but everything came up clear.  

Mrs Hudson returned from her sister’s as scheduled. A few days later she caught John as he was coming in the door with Tesco bags. Lots and lots of Tesco bags. Not only was he now buying for Mary as well as himself and Sherlock, he was also discovering that “eating for two” was not a myth.

“John, dear, I couldn’t help but notice that you and Sherlock are using the upstairs bedroom now,” Mrs Hudson began in a confidential tone. “I just wanted to thank you. I didn’t like to say anything about the noise...”

John felt his face heating up.

“...especially when it’s taken the two of you so long to get this point...”

Scratch “heating up,” insert “on fire.”

“...but I appreciate the consideration. I know it was your idea, of course. Sherlock is a dear but this isn’t the kind of thing he’d think of.”

John made a fast grab at both his composure and a shred of the truth.

“Actually, Mrs Hudson, it _was_ Sherlock’s idea.”

“Oh, really?” She looked extraordinarily pleased.

“Really.” John emphasized this with a decisive nod.

“Well, you’ve certainly been a good influence on him! Thank him for me, would you, dear?”

“Certainly, Mrs Hudson. Uh, I’ve got to...” John indicated the bags.

“Oh, yes, you get right upstairs and tuck the cold things away in the refrigerator. I see that you’re getting Sherlock to eat better as well!”

John smiled, nodded and fled.

***

Sherlock went out to see Lestrade’s betologist and returned quite pleased, with reams of notes indecipherable to anyone but himself, not because they were encrypted but because Sherlock’s handwriting was just that bad.

Sherlock went out to meet with an undisclosed person in an undisclosed location and returned with a set of mysterious bottles with handwritten labels.

John went out to the pub and managed not to let slip to Lestrade that Sherlock and Mary were spending the evening running quality assurance tests on illegal beta hormones. He did, however, think he ought to warn Lestrade that Sherlock had introduced himself to the betologist by telling her he’d got her name from “DI Lestrade.” This had immediately caused her to assume that the case Sherlock was working on was a Yard case. Sherlock had not corrected her assumptions.

Lestrade merely rolled his eyes. “Glad to hear Himself’s up to his usual form.”

***

“John,” said Sherlock as they recovered their breath in bed that night, “It should be no more difficult to purchase omega hormones than beta hormones.”

John had been drifting off. He was wide awake now. “We’ve already discussed this, Sherlock. No. There is not going to be a knot.”

“We don’t even know that there _would_ be,” coaxed Sherlock. “It would be an experiment.”

“Because being the subject of your previous experiments has been so much fun that I’m actually looking forward to one in which you try to recreate the effects on an omega in heat on my cock.”

“You are?”

“No!”

“Oh. Sarcasm. I see.” Sherlock rolled over, presented John with a view of his back and stole most of the covers while he was at it.

John sighed. “Look, Sherlock. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I know that. That’s the _point_.”

With another sigh, John rephrased. “I mean that I’m not going to allow you to create a situation in which I might hurt you because I’m not in my right mind.”

Brief silence. Then Sherlock rolled back and snuggled up against John. “I could tie you up?... Oh, you like that idea!”

“My _cock_ likes that idea.”

“How does the rest of you feel about it?”

“As if I’d like to explore it in a different context,” John admitted.

“Such as?”

“A context involving no hormones but our own.”

“Boring.”

“Oh, really?” John waited a moment and then moved suddenly, ending up with Sherlock on his belly and John straddling his back, pinning Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock bucked and writhed to no avail. John leant forward.

“I think the exploration of restraints of various sorts could be quite rewarding,” he purred.

Sherlock shivered once, hard, head to toe, and then went boneless beneath John. “You could be right.” His voice was slightly rough, and John grinned.

The grin vanished as Sherlock persisted, “How can you hurt me if you’re tied up?”

John rolled back off him and looked into his eyes. “My body will hurt your body.”

“What if I just used my hands and mouth? Imagine how that would feel, mmmm?” The coaxing tone was back.

John stroked the dark curls. “I don’t dare try to imagine that, love. And if I could trust you to stop there, I might take you up on it. But I know you too well.”

Sherlock pouted.

“Look, Sherlock, alphas don’t even knot omegas unless the omegas are in heat. An omega in heat undergoes physiological changes that allow her to experience...”

“And enjoy,” came the sulky interjection.

“And enjoy being knotted without getting hurt. Omegas outside heat don’t. Betas never do. And Sherlock... Hey, Sherlock? Look at me. That’s better. I want you to consider something.”

“What?” said Sherlock petulantly.

John leant close and whispered in his ear, “I’ve never fucked any pouch but yours.”

He laughed as Sherlock’s eyes went wide. In a moment they were both laughing – and then kissing.

The covers shared out nicely after all.

***

John left for the clinic on the 2nd of January with some trepidation, not entirely sure that Sherlock and Mary would neither kill each other in his absence nor collaborate on setting the flat on fire.

“Two things,” he told Mary. “One, no matter what Sherlock may tell you, Mrs Hudson really _does_ mind when tenants shoot the walls. Two, if you shoot Sherlock again, no place on earth will be too far away for me to hunt you down.”

“John, I didn’t take the risk of sneaking back into the UK in order to shoot the one beta who might be willing to carry this child. Furthermore, the woman who helped me do it had also managed to find out what agency Sherlock’s birthmother used to work with. Speaking of which, does Sherlock have a sister?”

“Not that I’ve ever heard.”

“Pale skin, dark hair, blue eyes, cheekbones? No? That’s odd. She told me to remind Sherlock that she wants to have dinner with him.”

Christ, thought John, didn’t _anyone_ ever stay dead anymore? Did they have to worry about Magnussen or even Moriarty reappearing?

“Anyway, no offense, but if I _did_ shoot Sherlock again I’d be far more worried about _her_ response than yours.”

“The woman who helped you?”

“No. Sherlock’s birthmum.”

***

John returned home from the clinic on the 2nd of January and was greeted at the door by Sherlock.

“John, I need you to take swabs from Mary so that I can test for sexually transmitted diseases. She won’t let me do it.”

“I can’t imagine why not,” muttered John .

Fortunately Mary turned out to be amenable to _John_ taking the swabs – especially after John pointedly suggested that Sherlock should swab his pouch and run tests on his _own_ blood and urine. Neither Mary nor John commented when, shortly afterwards, a bottle of Beta’s Own Multivitamins Plus (“Everything you need when you’re carrying or expecting to carry!”) appeared in the bathroom cabinet.

Over the weeks that followed, Mary and Sherlock got along amazingly well despite the fact that Mary was confined to the flat. Sherlock, who could and did leave on occasion, spent as much time as he could there so that he and Mary would be exposed to each other’s pheromones. John would have expected outbreaks of terminal boredom and mutual loathing. Instead, Mary steadily worked her way through Sherlock’s collection of literature on famous crimes and criminals, critiquing them professionally as she went. Sherlock undertook a crash course in human reproduction and all things related. Both seemed equally fascinated by the prospect of keeping bees on the roof.

Still, even psychopaths need physical outlets. John walked through the building’s front door one day just in time to hear a loud thud from upstairs. He ran the stairs and heard Sherlock complain, “It doesn’t make sense! I’m taller than you are and weigh more...”

“By less than a stone,” noted Mary.

“I ought to be able to...”

“Your height is your problem, tall, dark and gangly. Omegas have lower centres of gravity than male betas, let alone alphas. We’re more stable.”

“Physically.”

“You want to watch what you say to the woman who just slammed you down onto the floor.”

“What’s going on here?” asked John sharply.

Both started speaking at once.

“I needed...”

“Mary is teaching me...”

“...some exercise and...”

“...how to throw people. I told Mrs Hudson...”

“...Sherlock said Mrs Hudson wouldn’t mind.”

“...it was for a case and I wouldn’t damage the furniture.”

Indeed, all of the furniture had been pushed around the edges of the room. Sherlock looked rather the worse for wear, while Mary merely displayed a nice, rosy glow.

“Aren’t you worried about the child?” John asked her.

“Only if Sherlock manages to figure out how to throw me.”

“It still doesn’t make sense,” grumbled Sherlock. “I’m doing well enough with the yoga.” He demonstrated by sliding neatly into a half-pigeon.

“Right,” said John. “Has anyone given any thought to supper?”

John wasn’t entirely convinced that they’d managed to pull the wool over Mrs Hudson’s eyes. She was now supplying them with more casseroles and baked goods than ever, but she’d stopped bringing her largesse up to the flat. Instead, she waited until she heard John coming in the front door and bestowed it on him.

Sherlock shrugged when John mentioned this. “She’ll have made up some sort of story that purports to explain anything out of the ordinary that she’s noticed. People do that all the time. Since she’s undoubtedly _wrong_ , we needn’t worry.”

John _did_ worry. It was all going far too well for any plan that involved both Sherlock and Mary.

***

Things were still going well a month later when John scrubbed in on a coronary artery bypass graft at St Bart’s. It was a fairly common procedure among his patients, so he wanted to become more familiar with how it was done. The lead surgeon was pleased to invite him once he learned that John had been a trauma surgeon.

Afterwards, he grabbed a couple of coffees and went down to the morgue to see if Molly might be there. He didn’t get a chance to talk with her as often as he had in the old days, when he went out on cases with Sherlock more frequently.

He was a bit taken aback when Molly handed him a large package wrapped in plain brown paper.

“Would you mind, John? It’ll save me taking them ‘round to Baker Street. I hope the sizes and colours are all right, I did my best with the information Sherlock gave me...” She paused, finally catching up with the look on John’s face. “John? Sherlock said he told you.”

John smiled ruefully. “Sometimes Sherlock tells me things when I’m not actually there to hear them.”

“Drat! I specifically asked him if he’d told you and if you were okay with it. I’ve told him more than once that I never want to be a party to anything like, like, well, _that_ time again. No more surprises. Unless they’re good ones, of course, like surprise parties. But he _told_ me...”

She seemed genuinely distressed. “Molly, whatever Sherlock’s got going on, it’s not your fault. No, don’t try to take that back. I’ll take it home – _and_ I’ll make sure Sherlock thanks you for it.” The rest, John thought to himself, was between him and Sherlock.

Sherlock was out when John got home. Since he was supposedly in the know about the package and its contents, he had no hesitation in tearing it open. It proved to contain... Omega maternity clothes? Loose-waisted trousers, tops that needn’t be tucked in, all in strong or dark colours or shades of white.

“Oh, good, she was able avoid pastels.”

John looked up as Mary came out of the bedroom. “These are for you?”

“Well, they wouldn’t fit you and Sherlock.”

Speak of the devil – Sherlock strode into the flat, tossing his Belstaff aside. “John! You missed the case, and it was a high six. The landlord’s son’s megfriend’s bettifriend... Oh! Molly brought the clothes.”

“Not quite. I _happened to_ drop by the morgue, so she gave them to me under the assumption that I already knew you’d commissioned her to go clothing shopping for Mary.”

“Why were you at St Bart’s? Oh, obvious – scrubbed in on a procedure, hmmm, something fairly routine and boring.”

“That’s not...”

“Mary could hardly go out to buy clothes on her own.”

“...the point.”

“Purchases made online are too easy to track. You or I would have been far too obvious buying omega maternity clothes. Molly, as a female beta, was far less so. Which presumably _was_ the point you were about to enquire on.”

“Not really, Sherlock,” John growled.

“I’ll take these into the bedroom and try them on,” said Mary, grabbing the clothes.

Sherlock looked at the bedroom door as it closed behind her and then back at John. “You’re angry.”

“Brilliant deduction, genius! Yes, I’m angry! I thought we were keeping Mary’s presence here a secret!”

Sherlock frowned slightly. “We are.”

“But now Molly knows that you had a need for omega maternity clothes, she knows the sizes and she’s met Mary. You may think Molly’s an idiot...”

“Molly Hooper is no...”

“...but she’s not and...”

“I know that!” Sherlock snarled. “Molly Hooper is no idiot. She’s also proven she can keep a secret for an indefinite amount of time under the most trying conditions, as _you_ well know.” He practically spat the last four words out.

“Great, fantastic! Thanks for the reminder – except I didn’t need to hear it from you because Molly already delivered it! Did you _learn_ anything from that experience, Sherlock, anything at all?”

“It hardly matters because you’re _obviously_ about to try and teach me all over again.” For a man who often failed to understand sarcasm in others, Sherlock wielded it with good effect.

“The one thing I asked, the _only_ thing I asked, was that you tell me what you were going to do before you jumped into... Christ! S _et things in motion_.”

“I _did_ tell you!”

“ _Was I in the room at the time?_ ”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and raised his chin. “Based on the level of intelligent participation your presence adds to any conversation, it’s often hard to tell.”

John took a step forward without thinking about it.

“Your fists are clenched, John. Going to try and beat me up again?” Sherlock sneered. “Don’t bother. I’m going out.” He whirled around and headed for the door, grabbing his Belstaff as he went.

“You come back here with cocaine and I’m calling Lestrade myself!” John bellowed at his departing back.

A moment later, the front door slammed shut.

Christ. If Mrs Hudson hadn’t heard that, she needed a hearing test.

John went to the window, but Sherlock wasn’t in sight. He’d probably snapped his fingers and materialized a cab smack in front of Speedy’s.

Well, the hell with Sherlock. John would be fine. He just needed... a drink? Maybe not. Some tea. He’d make some tea.

He’d just put the kettle on when the bedroom door opened.

“That went well,” Mary observed.

“ _You_ shut up,” snapped John. “This never would have happened if you hadn’t come back.”

But Mary refused to back down. “No, this never would have happened if you’d managed to come to terms with what Sherlock did for you.”

“ _To_ me, you mean. You said it yourself – he had no idea.”

“I said that more than a year ago. I think he’s learned since then, at least a bit!”

“Oh, really? You could have fooled me.” The kettle boiled. John looked at the single mug he’d set out and sighed. “Tea?”

“Sit down, I’ll get it.”

Suddenly weary, John sat at the kitchen table. Mary handed him his mug and then sat down with her own.

“Have you seen Sherlock’s back?” she asked after a few sips.

John stared at her. Did she think he and Sherlock had been sharing nothing more than a bed? “Yes, of course. His back and, well... He and I...”

“Because I did, when he was in the hospital the first time.”

The fog of John’s weariness suddenly evaporated. “Immediately after you shot him,” he specified, just to make things perfectly clear.

Mary shrugged, unruffled, and took another sip of tea. “Yes, that time. I’d estimate that the scars were less than a year old.”

“What are you driving at?”

“Do I need to spell it out for you? I should think that you could figure out for yourself what state the original wounds were in the evening you knocked Sherlock to the ground – three times – and attempted to, as Sherlock put it, ‘beat him up.’”

John slammed his mug onto the table. Milky tea sloshed out.

But Mary kept talking. “I did some digging around while I was away. Sherlock may not have known what his absence would do to you – but you don’t know what he did _for_ you. You’ve never bothered to ask.”

“Why are you telling this?” asked John, his voice low.

“Because my child may not be able to have three parents, but it deserves at a least two – and a stable home.”

“Then you’ve come to the wrong place,” John snapped as he stood up and went for his jacket.

“Going after Sherlock?” Mary jibed. “I’d advise starting with Molly’s bedroom. Or better yet – just wait for Bill Wiggins to find you. Of course, that won’t happen unless Sherlock actually _wants_ you to find him. Are you sure he still does, John? Because you’d better _make_ sure before this child is born.”

The darkness and chill of the winter evening outside were just what John needed. He walked fast but aimlessly, taking turnings at random until he found himself at the Thames. He walked halfway out on the downstream Golden Jubilee Bridge and stood for a while, watching the dark waters flow below him.

Bill Wiggins, kitted out in his new parka, found John there.

“Bit of a domestic, was there?”

“Piss off,” replied John. There was no real venom in it. He was beginning to be hungry and a bit cold.

“’E didn’ tell me that. I deduced it for mesel’.”

John turned to watch water again. “Good for you.”

“Wan’ ta know what ‘e said when I ast if ‘e wannit me ‘elp buyin’ a bit of somefin’?”

John spun and grabbed the lapels of the parka. “Billy,” he growled.

But Wiggins stared back at him calmly enough. “’E looked like ‘e was thinkin’ abou’ it. But then ’e said – ‘No, me blogger would objeck.’ Tha’s what ‘e said.” He stumbled a bit as John let go of him.

“E’ll be all right. I’ll keep an eye on ‘im, like. But... ‘e might not be ‘ome right tonight, you unnerstan’?”

John took a breath. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

Wiggins nodded and began to walk away towards the south end of the bridge. He turned when John called after him. “Bill! I just wanted to say – thank you.”

Wiggins waved and walked away.

Two days later, John came downstairs for his morning tea and found Sherlock asleep on the sofa, a bit grimy but otherwise no worse for wear.

John made three mugs of tea. He set one down next to Sherlock, who roused enough to blink at John muzzily.

“Drink that and then go get a shower, genius,” John said fondly. “You stink.”

It was fairly clear that Sherlock’s transport had awoken before his mind, because he complied without complaint or even comment.

***

Mary was right, course. John knew that he and Sherlock needed to talk, should have done so before now. John _hadn’t_ noted the age – or lack thereof – of Sherlock’s scars while Sherlock was in the hospital. He’d been much more focussed on the fact that his best friend was fighting to stay alive. But John had seen the scars many times since.

Sherlock would say that John had seen and not _observed_ , but Sherlock would be wrong. John had observed. He just hadn’t allowed himself to think what his observations meant.

There were no acceptable excuses for his failure to do so.

“Sherlock,” John began when they were curled together in bed that night. “There’s something we need to talk about.”

“I was wondering when you’d notice,” grumbled Sherlock.

“To be completely honest, Mary had to point it out to me. I’m not proud of that.”

Sherlock sniffed. “Nor should you be. You’ve displayed an abysmal level of observational skills, even for you.”

John stiffened a bit. “I had other things on my mind!” You were dying, he didn’t say.

“Fine!” snapped Sherlock. “I don’t need your assistance in any case. I’m perfectly capable of buying my own maternity clothes.”

It was several minutes before John recovered sufficiently to say anything. “Maternity clothes?”

“Yes, of course! What else... Oh, never mind, here!” Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and placed it on his own flat... Oh. Not quite so flat, ever so slightly squooshy belly.

“Sherlock,” whispered John.

“It was inevitable, I suppose. My pouch is accumulating more insulation to keep the child warm, the lining is getting ready to exude aerosols to help it breathe and my teats are swelling. Which is all fine but soon none of my trousers will fit!”

“They’ve always fit rather _closely_ ,” teased John as he stroked the soft, swollen pouch.

“I’ve never heard you complain,” Sherlock retorted. And then as John ran a finger down the pouch slit, “Ahhh! You could... feel inside. If you wanted to.”

“God, yes,” breathed John.

Within the moist warmth of the pouch, Sherlock’s teats were noticeably larger. They must have grown gradually over time. How had John not noticed?

“The hormones have... sped things... oh!... up. Yes, like that, just like that, John.”

“You’re going to carry our child.”

“Are my pheromones killing your brain cells? You knew that a month ag...”

John licked Sherlock’s neck and then nipped it.

“Ahhh!”

“Stop maligning my brain cells,” John muttered against Sherlock’s flushed skin. “It’s different _feeling_ the changes. You’re going to carry our child and the child’s going to grow and you’re going to be _huge_.” Just the thought made him dizzy with arousal. He couldn’t resist grinding against Sherlock’s arse.

“Maybe not _that_ large. Mary’s no more than average height and _you’re_ decidedly short.” A pause. “Oh! Is this a fantasy of yours?”

“Don’t mock my fantasies,” John growled.

“Why would I? Your fantasies usually turn out quite well for us both.” Sherlock’s voice acquired a touch of slyness. “The superiour quality of nutrients available in the child’s post-natal environment will undoubtedly make up for any genetic shortcoming... John!”

John gave Sherlock’s cock another squeeze and then continued to stroke it with one hand while still fingering Sherlock’s teats with the other.

“ _Huge_ , Sherlock.”

“I was getting there! Yes, our child is going to be huge. I’m going to waddle when I walk. Or maybe I won’t even be able to walk.”

“Oh, no, you won’t. You’ll have to stay in bed all the time. You’ll always be here, waiting for me.”

“I won’t even be able to turn on my own. You’ll need to do _all_ the work.” Sherlock made a show of fluttering his eyelashes.

“I’ll work on you all right,” John promised with a grin. “And stop laughing at me!” He slipped one hand behind Sherlock’s cock to fondle his balls, tugging slightly. Gratifyingly, Sherlock did indeed stop laughing in favour of gasping.

“You’ll be so huge you won’t be able to see your own cock. I’ll get down between your legs and you won’t be able to see what I’m going to do next. I’ll use my hands and my mouth, I’ll touch you _everywhere_ , Sherlock, you won’t refuse me, you’ll be too busy begging for more.”

“Touch my arsehole, John! Touch me there!”

“What’s the magic word?” John asked as he took his hand away to grab the lube and squeeze some on his fingers.

“Please!” wailed Sherlock. And then, “Oh, yes! Just like that! I want you inside me. I’m going to _have_ you inside me! I’ll shove you back against the bed and straddle you and I’ll be so _huge_ you won’t be able to escape.”

“Christ, Sherlock!” John grabbed the base of his cock to keep from coming on the spot. “I won’t _want_ to escape. Not you, never you.” He added another finger, stroking, massaging, but when he withdrew his hand, Sherlock grabbed him suddenly and flipped them over.

“I’ll be _huge_ , John,” he said, his eyes locked on John’s. “All you’ll see is my belly looming over you. You’ll hardly be able to breathe with the weight of our child on top of you, but I’ll ride you and ride you and ride you...”

“Sherlock, please, yes!” And then as Sherlock sank down on him, John threw back his head and yelled, “Sherlock!”

Sherlock rode him hard as John bucked beneath him.

“I retract... my statement... that you’re... short.” Sherlock drove his arse down extra hard on John’s cock. “Not short... at all... So very... long. Thick. John.” Sherlock’s own cock was dripping all over John’s belly. “John, touch me! Oh. _Please_. Touch me!” And John could barely coordinate his hands, but he managed to get hold of Sherlock’s cock, to make a tunnel for Sherlock to thrust into, even to squeeze, once, twice...

“JOHN!” Sherlock screamed and came, his muscles grasping John’s cock deep inside him, and then John was coming too.

Sometime later it occurred to John that if neither of them got a flannel and wiped up, they’d be stuck together in the morning. But Sherlock had already collapsed next to him and gone to sleep. John was still mulling the problem over when he fell asleep too.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not everyone enjoys amateur evolutionary biological whimsy, so I've given my attempt a chapter all its very own. No major plot points.

Sherlock’s black maternity trousers turned out to look exactly like his regular black trousers, just with a bit more room in the waist and stomach. He alternated between preening and sulking. When he did the former, John assured him that he looked amazing. When he did the latter, John assured him that he didn’t look any different at all.

Both were true. As far as John was concerned, Sherlock had _always_ looked amazing. His height neatly disguised the slight puffiness of his belly. Once he started carrying the child and especially as the child grew, his swollen pouch would become more noticeable. For now, John doubted that anyone who wasn’t already in the know could tell the difference.

Finally becoming a bit tired of it all, John decided to try humour instead. “I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” he remarked one evening at supper. “I’m the one who hasn’t got any new clothes. I’m feeling a bit left out!”

He’d reckoned without Mary.

“You can _have_ my maternity clothes if you take my backaches and never-ending trips to the loo as well!” she snapped. “I’m more than ready for this to be over.”

Sherlock looked up from the peas he’d been pushing into patterns on his plate. “Just be glad you’re not an amarsupial. You’d have a lot longer to wait.”

John frowned. “An ay-ma what?”

“Mammals without pouches,” explained Sherlock.

“In Australia,” Mary added.

“Actually, although the land-bound species are limited almost entirely to Australia, bats, pinnipeds and cetaceans are found worldwide.”

“All right, I remember some of this from my pre-medical biology courses,” said John. “But I’m surprised you haven’t deleted it. It doesn’t seem to have much relevance to human crimes.”

“You’d be surprised,” Sherlock responded loftily.

“Come off it, Sherlock,” Mary told him. “He’s been spending most of his time researching, John. Started with human reproduction and branched out from there. It’s like the wedding preparations all over, except this time without serviettes.”

Sherlock glared at her. “If _you_ were an amarsupial, you’d be stuck carrying the child internally for another four to five months until it could breathe and regulate its body temperature on its own.”

“How would that even work?” retorted Mary. “By the time children are born, they need more nutrition than the placenta can supply. What would they be living on for the extra months?”

“A hyperplasic placenta,” Sherlock replied.

“A what?”

John decided it might be time to intervene. “Mary, you know how initially a choriovitelline placenta forms from the yolk sac of the fertilized ovum, right?”

“And then it’s replaced by the chorioallantoic placenta. If I hadn’t already covered this in nursing training, it’s on all the prenatal information sites.”

“It’s replaced by the chorioallantoic placenta in humans and other higher orders of mammals,” Sherlock clarified. “The lower orders make do with the choriovitelline placenta.”

“All right, so what’s the hyper thing you mentioned?”

“In amarsupials, the chorioallantoic placenta develops further into a sort of filter that directly connects the mother’s bloodstream with the child’s.”

“But then the mother’s body would reject the child, because the DNA are different,” argued Mary.

“Hence the filter.”

Mary looked sceptical. “You’re making the child sound like a sort of vampire, feeding off the mother’s blood.”

“ _And_ using the mother’s bloodstream to carry off its wastes,” Sherlock pointed out.

Mary grimaced, but Sherlock carried on. “Once an amarsupial infant is born, the mother has to care for it entirely on her own.”

“I remember this bit,” said John. “We had something of a fight about it in class. You know how in most mammalian species, both females and males have pouches?”

Mary nodded. “But males don’t have functional teats.”

“Right, but at least they can do their share in carrying the newborn while it still needs to be in the pouch – keep it warm, help it breathe, all that. Well, amarsupial infants are born being able to breathe and stay warm on their own. They still need their mothers to nurse, but they don’t really need their fathers for anything.”

“Which is why no amarsupial species is known to pair-bond,” added Sherlock. “What was the fight about, John?”

“Well, humans have secondary genders, of course.”

“All hominids do, including primates,” Sherlock corrected.

“Fine, then, but we didn’t have any chimpanzees or gorillas in the classroom. What we had was a lot alphas and omegas whose pre-pouches were either atrophying or atrophied _and_ not quite as many betas. The betas pointed out that they were going to be expected to do all the carrying...”

“Assuming they chose to have children.”

“Yes, Sherlock, that point was made. Anyway, the betas asserted that alphas and omegas were no better than amarsupial males. The alfs and megs said the betties were all a bunch of betaists, the betties wanted to know what was wrong with that and then...”

Mary was grinning. “Let me guess. The megs said they were oppressed too and claimed that the female betaists were guilty of discrimination against their meg sisters.”

John nodded. “Some of the betties agreed, some didn’t. Everyone was arguing, the alfs were claiming that _everyone_ was out to get them and then one of them said something about another’s sister.”

Sherlock and Mary executed simultaneous eye-rolls.

“Yeah, alphas, I know. Anyway, punches were thrown, furniture was broken and the dean was called.”

“Yet humans are supposedly an intelligent species,” Sherlock observed.

“Thanks to the betas, apparently,” Mary added with a wink at John. “It’s this theory Sherlock’s got.”

“No, it’s a theory originally put forward by Goodey and Fossall in 1993 and now widely accepted among evolutionary anthropologists,” retorted Sherlock frostily.

“Do tell,” John invited.

“In most mammals, the newly born infant’s forelimbs have to be well developed enough for the infant to pull themselves from the mother’s birth canal to her pouch. This limits the prenatal resources that can be devoted towards brain development. The evolution of a secondary gender in hominids creates a pool of individuals who have no children of their own but who benefit the gene pool of their immediate family group by ‘catching’ infants at birth and placing them in their own pouches.”

John wondered if Sherlock had added breathing to the list of things his transport didn’t really need.

“These individuals – the betas – carry the infants, while the fertile alpha/omega individuals are free to breed again immediately. The result allows for more intelligent children, born at a higher rate.”

“At least until contraceptives were invented,” Mary pointed out.

“Even before that the system was self-balancing to some degree, since secondary gender isn’t settled until puberty. In family groups with large numbers of children, large numbers of alpha/omega individuals and/or scarce resources, a higher proportion of adolescents will present as betas. Under the opposite conditions, a higher proportion will present as alphas or omegas, depending on their primary gender.”

“Huh, I already knew that,” said John. “I’ve never really thought much about it in evolutionary terms, at least not since university.”

“Neither did Sherlock – until he got personally involved in the process of reproduction,” Mary teased. And then when Sherlock glared at her, “For which I am extremely grateful, Sherlock. I know this isn’t... what you’d planned.”

Appeased, Sherlock shrugged. “It’s what I’m doing.”

For me, thought John. You’re doing this for me. Without thinking, he reached out across the table and touched Sherlock’s hand, then didn’t know what to say when his partner turned to look at him. “Well. Er.” God, Watson, say _something_. “Has anyone ever thought of what might have happened if intelligence had developed among the amarsupials?”

Predictably, Sherlock rose to the bait. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. This isn’t one of your silly science fiction shows! For one thing, brain sizes among amarsupial species are severely limited by the fact that the infant’s skull has to fit through the mother’s birth canal after a longer gestational period.”

“Ouch!” Mary looked pained.

“In fact, body weight in general is limited in amarsupials, at least in land-bound species. For any species, the mother has to be able to carry her own weight _plus_ the infant’s for two to three times as long as in the equivalent species of a more typical mammal. The only amarsupial species that reach any notable size are the sea mammals – cetaceans and pinnipeds – because their weight is partially support by water.”

“Aren’t whales and dolphins supposed to be intelligent? And does anyone want dessert?” asked Mary, pushing herself up to her feet.

John stood up as well and began to clear the table. Sherlock didn’t so much stand up as fling himself out of his chair at John’s laptop, where he began typing.

“Now you’ve got him researching cetacean intelligence,” John said quietly to Mary.

“As long as I don’t have to hear any more about vampire placentas,” she shot back. “Custard or lemon tarts?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) In life as we know it, most male marsupials don’t have pouches and the ones that do use them to store their genitalia, not their young. However, for purposes of this story I needed beta males to have pouches. I regret nothing.
> 
> 2) Also in life as we know it, chorioallantoic placentas are the exception rather than the rule among marsupials. Google bandicoots if you’re interested.
> 
> 3) As Sherlock notes, a newly born marsupial uses its forelimbs to pull themselves from its mother’s birth canal to her pouch. In life as we know it, evolutionary biologists theorize that this would prevent the development of marsupial species in which the forelimbs had evolved into flippers or wings. Hence the amarsupial bats and sea mammals in this fic. 
> 
> 4) The names given to biological divisions of mammals use our own species as the norm to an amazing degree. Because we are placental mammals, placental mammals are considered to be eutherians – literally, good beasts. Marsupials are metatherians, middling beasts. Beasts that didn’t quite make the cut.
> 
> And consider the fact that we distinguish ourselves from marsupials as placental mammals even though marsupials do have placentas, albeit not as highly developed as ours. Thus from marsupial!Sherlock’s POV, our placentas are hyperplasic. Yeah, I stole that term from my oncologist. Hear me: I regret nothing.
> 
> 5) Thanks for the “helper in the nest” hypothesis is owed to evolutionary psychologists Paul Vasey and Doug VanderLaan. As far as I’m concerned, it works as well for betas as it does for gay men. 
> 
> 6) In my particular iteration of alpha/beta/omega, all omegas are female and all alphas are male. If this doesn’t float your boat, there’s plenty of omega!John and omega!Sherlock out there. My own favourite female alpha is Irene in fresne’s [_Stars in a Phrygian Sky_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/453727/chapters/778909).


	9. Chapter 9

As the crocuses and daffodils began to appear outdoors in late February, Mary became noticeably more restless about having to stay inside all the time. Still, John thought she was bearing up with reasonable grace.

Until.  

The first day of March was dreary and damp. Everyone had collected in the living room, which wasn’t really large enough. Mary had settled on the sofa with a book but kept getting up to pace, saying that her back hurt. This meant that Sherlock couldn’t pace without bumping into Mary. Instead he’d taken up his violin for an apparently infinite series of distinctly unmelodic exercises.

John was hiding behind his newspaper, thinking of going for a walk despite the weather, when Sherlock’s phone rang. Sherlock continued to saw away at his fiddle. A moment later _John’s_ phone rang, which almost certainly meant...

“John, it’s Greg. Is Sherlock there? Our Bulgarian friends have struck again.”

“He’s right here, I’ll toss him the phone as soon as he puts his violin dow... _Thank you_ , Sherlock. Here you go, Greg!”

John tossed the phone to Sherlock and went to get his gun and jacket. By the time he returned, Sherlock was slipping the phone into the pocket of the Belstaff.

“That’s mine, thanks,” said John, holding out his hand. “Yours is, for some reason, on top of the refrigerator.”

Sherlock huffed but handed over John’s phone and went to get his own, starting to explain the case as he did so.

“Lestrade thinks it’s the Cherni Kucheta again because...”

“Hold on there! Sherlock, you can’t leave now!” They’d forgotten Mary, who was now glaring at them with her hands on her hips. “I’m too close! This baby could be born any time now.”

“Possible, but not probable,” replied Sherlock coolly. “You should have at least another week, maybe two.”

“Primiparas tend to be late,” John added, trying to sound reassuring. “And they also have longer labours. You’ve got a burner phone. If anything starts to happen, call either one of us and we’ll both return immediately.”

“Unless you’re holed up in an alley somewhere being shot at.” Mary knew far too much about their usual working conditions.

“Are you proposing to come with us and shoot back?” Sherlock retorted.

“I’m _proposing_ that it’s time for you to realize that you can’t go running off on cases anymore – not now and not for several months after the child is born. It doesn’t seem to have occurred to you that carrying a child isn’t some kind of sexy game. You’re not dragging _my_ child through the alleyways of London! It’s past time you learned to grow up, show some responsibility and _stay home_!”

Sherlock, always pale, went deathly white. He whirled and strode out the door.

“Sherlock, wait!” John yelled, going after him. He arrived at the head of the stairs just in time to see the outer door slam shut behind Sherlock. John ran down the stairs and outside but saw only a taxi vanishing down Baker Street. There were, of course, no other cabs in sight.

John ran back up the stairs. Mary was still standing inside the flat, watching at the door. John ignored her as he dialed Lestrade. “Hello, Greg?”

“I hope you two are on your way.”

“Sherlock is.”

“Alone, I take it.”

“There was a... complication. I’ll be there as soon as I can find a cab. Listen, don’t let Sherlock leave until I get there.”

“I’ll _try_ , mate. But don’t waste time.”

“I won’t. Ta, Greg!”

John hung up and turned on Mary. “ _You_ are staying here. _We_ will discuss this later. If there’s an emergency, call. If you call and it’s not an emergency, it will _become_ an emergency.”

“You won’t hurt me,” Mary replied confidently.

John’s smile was all teeth. “Not personally, no.” Then, like Sherlock, he ran down the stairs and headed out to find a cab.

***

Sherlock and Lestrade were already discussing the corpse by the time John arrived.

“The last one was an execution of a disloyal gang member,” Lestrade said, “so I’m thinking...”

“Or trying to, which at least puts you ahead of most of your team. John, you’re finally here. Took you long enough. Look at his toe.”

John bit back an angry retort, looked at the toe and frowned. “That’s not an amputation. It looks more as if the toe’s been... crushed.”

“Estimated time?”

“Years ago. Possibly a decade or two.” John waited for Sherlock’s scathing comment on his lack of precision.

Instead Sherlock smiled slightly. “Correct. Now look at the tattoo under his right ear.”

John did so and received a surprise. “That’s... Is that freshly done?”

“No more than nine hours ago, I would say.”

“The body’s eight to ten hours old.”

“Can you tell if the tattoo was done before or after death?”

“Hmmm, not sure. There’s no traces of blood or serum, but those could have been wiped away. Wait a moment, where’s the _rest_ of the blood?”

“From the gaping gunshot wound in his abdomen? Let’s ask _Detective Inspector_ Lestrade, shall we?”

“We figure he was shot somewhere else and then dumped. The last one was,” said Lestrade defensively.

“The _last_ one was shot in the head, typical of professional gang executions. _This_ one was shot rather messily in the abdomen. The tattoo was almost certainly applied after death.”

“To make it look like a Bulgarian gang killing?”

“Your lot certainly fell for it.”

Lestrade didn’t look happy. “What do you make of the toe?” he asked.

“A fluke. The killer had no reason to remove the victim’s shoes and never knew about it. It took your forensics techs to spot the tattoo, jump to conclusions, pull the right shoe off and then mistake a mangled toe for an amputated one.”

Lestrade sighed. “Would you believe I miss Anderson sometimes?”

“No,” replied Sherlock curtly. “Hmmm, almost all the media stories showed close-ups of the Cherni Kucheta tattoo. Anyone could have seen it, but it’s relatively intricate and would be difficult to execute by someone untrained.”

“So we’re looking for a professional.”

“Perhaps a talented amateur. Someone who had not only the training but also access to a tattoo machine, needles and ink.”

“I can have some officers make the rounds of the tattoo parlours,” Lestrade offered. “Any idea _why_ he was killed?”

“Good quality clothes and shoes but worn past the time they’d normally be replaced. Married, with at least one small child. Note the spot of mashed food on the back of his trousers where the child hugged him on his way out the door. He needed money for his family and dealt with the wrong person to get it. Check the missing person reports. His spouses may have called in by now.”

“Will do.” Lestrade headed off, already talking into his phone.

“John, have you got photos of both tattoos on your phone, the previous one and this one?”

“You want to compare them.”

“No, I want someone who knows more about tattooing than I do to compare them. And since we’re already going to be doing the rounds of artists who operate in less standard venues than the police will be checking, we’d might as well get an informed opinion while we’re at it.”

***

Smoky McPherson was an old man now and his hands were shaky, but in his prime he’d been the go-to guy for tattoos not just in his own cellblock but in the entire prison. Transferees from other prisons thanked their luck for the opportunity to get a tattoo from Smoky.

He’d done forty years of a life sentence when the parole board released him into a world that neither knew nor cared who he was. Overnight, he went from being a prison celebrity to being no one at all.

Now he crouched in a church doorway, his few belongings a tattered bundle by his side, sipping the sweet, milky coffee that Sherlock had ordered John to buy and studying the tattoo photos on John’s phone.

“Ta bloke wha’ did ta secon’ ‘un is lef’ hannit,” Smoky opined. “See ‘ere? An’ ‘ere?”

“Professional equipment or homemade?”

“Professional, as far’s I can tell from photos. Nex’ time bring ta whole arm.” This was apparently a joke, as Smoky followed it with a wheezy laugh.

“Couldn’t get the arm past the Yarders,” replied Sherlock matter-of-factly. “Left-handed, fairly skilled, access to professional equipment and currently operating in London. Any ideas?”

Smoky sipped more coffee as he thought about it. When he finally spoke it was to ask, “Spare a fag?”

“Sorry, I haven’t got any.” When Sherlock glared pointedly at John, Smoky started laughing again.

“Never min’, I see ‘ow it is. Yer an’ al, aincha?” he asked John.

“And a doctor,” replied John, smiling.

“Oh, well then. No gettin’ no fags pas’ you, I guess!” Smoky’s laughter became somewhat alarming. John was regretting not bringing his stethoscope by the time Smoky gathered enough breath to speak again and began to name names.

***

George “Georgie Boy” Jones was an ex-con with a small tattooing business and a megfriend who ran a gambling ring. Neither of them were happy when her oncoming heat brought them home from the pub at a relatively early hour only to discover Sherlock and John searching their flat. When George panicked and began to spill a tale about a routine debt collection visit gone wrong, Minnie the meg pulled a gun out of her copious cleavage and pointed it at Sherlock. John distracted her by shooting the wall behind her, Sherlock jumped her in an attempt to retrieve her gun and then George – a big man, but a bit slow – tried to jump Sherlock but landed on Minnie instead.

In the ensuing melee, Sherlock discovered that George was indeed easier to throw than Mary. The problem turned out to be keeping him down once he hit the floor. By the time John had disabled Minnie, George was sitting on top of Sherlock with his hands around Sherlock’s throat. John had hoped that the sound of gunfire might cause the neighbours to call the police. He hadn’t quite counted on having the police burst in just in time to see him clock George with Minnie’s gun.

The constables arrested them all on the spot. Fortunately, Minnie proved extremely distracting both as to scent and sound. She was well and truly going into heat by now, her alpha was lying on the floor unconscious or dead _and_ she had a dislocated shoulder. Her curses were loud, creative and addressed to all parties present, George included. Sherlock provided a rasping counterpoint, insisting that he needed immediate medical care for his throat.

What with one thing and another, by the time Lestrade arrived minutes later John still hadn’t been frisked – which meant that no one had discovered the gun he’d tucked back into his trousers once he’d got hold of Minnie’s.

It was fairly late by the time John and Sherlock were released on the promise that they’d come down to the Yard the next day to make their statements. Sherlock’s throat having miraculously healed the moment they left George and Minnie’s flat, John’s first thought was that they should head back to Baker Street and Mary. Then he thought, fuck that. Mary had a phone in case of emergencies. She hadn’t used it, so there were presumably no emergencies. And John had things he needed to say to Sherlock before they saw Mary again.

“Sherlock, if you can tell a good Chinese restaurant by the lower third of the door handle, what do you look for to indicate a good East Indian curry place?”

***

Predictably, Sherlock knew a restaurant where the owner owed him a favour and was happy to stay open a bit later than usual to accommodate Sherlock and John. John’s saag gosht was amazing. So was Sherlock’s murgh kari when John asked for a taste, but Sherlock himself merely picked at it – and that only when he wasn’t occupied with shredding a piece of makki di roti.

“So,” John began, “I’ve seen people – alphas and omegas – wearing these, ah, things.” He gestured at his own chest. “Carriers. For babies.”

Sherlock stopped torturing the makki di roti. “Like fabric pouches?”

“That’s right. I had a look online. There’s all sorts of designs. We should probably do some research before we buy one. See if I can get a chance to try on different models.”

“You couldn’t use it right away in any case.” Sherlock picked up his neglected fork.

“No, they’re generally only recommended for children at least four or five months old. But look, for the first month or two you should still be able to get around pretty well. It’s the next three months that things get tricky. We could use Skype, we’ve done that before. I do the footwork, you handle the deductions.”

Sherlock swallowed a mouthful of curry to ask, “What about the clinic?”

“I’m fairly sure I’m owed some amount of paternity leave. Whether or not it’s all _paid_ leave, that’s a good question.”

“I need to review the terms of my trust. I deleted the bits about what happens if I marry and have children. Or just have a child.”

“Would you want to?” asked John softly.

Sherlock frowned. “Was your saag gosht drugged? We wouldn’t be having this conversation if I hadn’t _already_ agreed to carry a child.”

“I meant marry. Marry _me_. Not yet, because as long as my marriage to Mary still holds, she’d have to agree to marry you too. But in two years I can file for divorce on grounds of desertion and then I’ll be...”

“Free?”

“I was going to say, all yours.”

Sherlock’s frown reappeared. “You can’t be ‘all mine,’ nor can I be ‘all yours.’”

“Sherlock...”

“That would leave our child out.”

Something in John’s heart started to sing. He reached across the table and took Sherlock’s hands. “I guess I shouldn’t forget who’s the genius in this family, should I?”

Sherlock gave him a small smile. “I’d think it would be so blindingly obvious as to be impossible to forget.”

“There’s something else that should be obvious, but I’m going to say it anyway. Mary had no business saying what she did. This isn’t going to be her family. Her opinion doesn’t count.”

Sherlock squeezed John’s hands. They sat looking into each other’s eyes a moment, then let go, looked away and resumed eating.

“She never understood you at all, in any case,” said John, chuckling at the memory. “After we were married, I asked her what she thought about asking you to join us. She said you were only interested in being my friend and that you’d never want children. Omega intuition, my arse. She must have been quite surprised when she came back.”

“But she wasn’t,” murmured Sherlock.

“Sorry?”

“Not important, never mind. Can I taste your chicken or have you eaten it all? We should try that out as a fantasy.” Sherlock dropped his voice to breathy quasi-whisper. “Oh, John, this child’s going to have your appetite! My teats will be all swollen and sore!”

“Not in public, Sherlock!” John was fighting not to laugh. “Mr Chhapyian will throw us out!”

“I can feel them shift against my pouch lining every time I move and I can’t stand it, you need to touch them!”

John lost his fight.

***

They chose to walk home after their late dinner. The skies had cleared to reveal the first quarter moon. As they neared Baker Street, John pulled Sherlock aside into a detour through Regent’s Park. Despite the chilly air, the deserted park smelled of growing things and the coming spring.

“There’s one more thing we need to talk about – and not in public,” John explained as they walked deeper into the park.

Sherlock didn’t answer until several steps on. “Go ahead.”

John took a deep breath. “I need to know when you were tortured.”

“There were several minor incidents,” Sherlock replied calmly. “I presume you’re referring to the scars on my back.”

John vowed to himself that someday he’d get the full story, but for now he said only, “I am.”

“I was captured in Serbia after breaking into a military installation.”

“Of course. _Why?_ ”

“They apparently didn’t want me there.”

“No, what possessed you to break into a foreign military installation _on your own_...”

“I wasn’t on holiday, John. I was working. And it was hardly the first time I’d had to break in somewhere I wasn’t wanted – ‘on my own,’ as you put it. Is this relevant to your original question?”

“Sorry,” John said with a sigh. “Go on.”

“I was still planning my escape when Mycroft turned up, claiming there was an underground terrorist network active in London and a massive attack was imminent.”

“Wait a moment, Mycroft turned up in _Serbia_? I thought he didn’t do fieldwork.”

“Oh, he doesn’t. You should have heard him whining! I had to listen to it all the way back to London.”

“He brought you back to London.”

“He insisted that I accompany him for the sake of finding this ‘underground network.’”

Mycroft rescued you, thought John, and neither of you will ever admit it. “And did you find it?”

Sherlock smirked. “You should know. You were there. Remember the Sumatra Road Underground station? The Tube carriage wired to be a bomb?”

John remembered all right. “The berk who thought it was fun to turn the bomb _off_ and not tell me he’d done so?”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide in mock dismay. “What happened to ‘the best and wisest man’ that you’ve ever known?”

“He’s agreed to carry my child. I’m going to marry him as soon as I can – _despite_ his being a complete dickhead, not because of it.”

“He’s lucky you were able to forgive him,” said Sherlock seriously.

John began to smile – and then realized something that wiped the nascent smile off his face. “That evening at the Landmark. You’d just got back from Serbia.”

Sherlock looked away. “Revealing myself to you without warning may not have been one of my better plans. In my defense, I had no idea that...”

“I would knock you to the ground on your injured back? _Three_ times? Christ, Sherlock, why didn’t you say something?”

“You were angry enough to resort to physical violence. Any excuses I offered...”

“ _Excuses_?”

“...would have been taken as whining.”

“Recent torture is not an ‘excuse’!”

“It is if you’re angry enough,” said Sherlock, almost to himself.

They walked on in silence. John took deep breaths, trying to calm down. After a long while, he could finally speak again. “Someone did that once, did they? Hit you when you were already injured, then told you to stop whining.”

Sherlock shrugged. “More than once, but long ago.”

“And yet, you remember. You haven’t deleted it.”

Silence.

“Sherlock, wait. Stop. Look at me, will you?”

Their eyes met.

“I won’t press. But know this: whoever it was, I’m not them.”

“I know that.”

“Okay, then, _believe_ it.”

“I’ll try.”

On impulse, John went up on his toes a bit and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. When he would have pulled back away, Sherlock hugged him. Hard. They stood with their arms wrapped around each other for several moments, breathing in each other’s scents. Sherlock’s sunny autumn had acquired new notes recently, hard to describe and yet unmistakably _right_.

They broke apart when John tried and failed to stifle a yawn. “Time to take you home,” said Sherlock lightly. And then as they walked, “Mycroft told me where to find you that evening. Blame him if you need someone to blame. He bought me the clothes I was wearing. I binned the shirt as soon as I got home.”

Binned it rather than try to wash out the blood, John realized. “Is that meant to be reassuring?”

“Isn’t it?”

“No. But thanks for trying. Ah, here we are, York Bridge.”

They crossed the Outer Circle and left the park.


	10. Chapter 10

John woke up the next morning alone, which was definitely _not_ how he’d gone to bed. He found Sherlock in the kitchen, attempting to make the kettle boil faster by glaring at it. It seemed a bit odd, as Sherlock usually immersed himself in an experiment or research until John showed up to make tea. More recently, Mary would often make Sherlock’s...

Oh. John glanced at the bedroom door. It remained closed, as it had been when they returned home the night before. He looked back at Sherlock, laying visual siege to the kettle instead of trying to concentrate on work. Nerves?

Sherlock ignored John as he stepped in close behind his lover, using one hand to push aside the dark curls so he could nose at Sherlock’s neck. John’s other hand reached around to rest on Sherlock’s palpably softer, more padded stomach. Sherlock was stiff and tense against him, but when John began to stroke said stomach and nip gently at the back of that pale neck, Sherlock melted suddenly – and completely.

They only stepped away from each other when they heard the bedroom door open. Mary padded in, her eyes swollen and reddish. John wondered if she’d cried herself to sleep.

Sherlock turned to face her. The tension in the air reminded John of American “Western” films in which two gunfighters faced each other alone at high noon.

“Sherlock, I’d like to apologize for what I said. Pregnancy and hormones...”

“You weren’t surprised,” said Sherlock in a level voice.

Mary was taken aback. “What?”

“You told John I was interested in him only as a friend, but you weren’t at all surprised when you returned and discovered we’d become more. In fact, you gambled on the chance that I’d be willing to carry John’s child despite the risks inherent for you in entering the UK.”

“I _was_ surprised. I merely hid it well.” Mary seemed to have regained some composure. “Understanding human emotions isn’t your area, Sherlock.”

“No, but observing the physical details that betray emotional reactions is very much ‘my area.’ What’s interesting about your statement, however, is that you said something similar the evening we first met. And then you followed it by saying you’d talk John ‘round. Did you welcome the opportunity I represented?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her eyes flickered to John, who stepped back, distancing himself. This was Sherlock’s show.

“You wouldn’t want me as the third in your marriage, of course. I’d be too close, see too much. In fact, all but the most stupid and unobservant betas would have represented a risk to someone like you who has so much to hide. Too bad stupid’s not John’s type.”

The kettle boiled. John quietly removed it from the heat.

“That’s not true,” retorted Mary. “I specifically asked John if he thought Molly Hooper might be interested. John can verify that.”

“Oh, please. A blind monk could tell that Molly’s as bent as a safety pin. I have no doubt that you asked about her. What better, safer way to convince John that you actually _were_ interested in finding a beta? Did you ever intend to have children at all? Or were you planning to let the years pass and then blame bad luck? Certainly you were only driven to try to conceive when you realized that a pregnancy might be your last chance to hang on to John.”

“I must have seemed like the perfect foil to you. You positioned me outside your marriage but encouraged John to keep seeing me as a friend. You counted on my proximity decreasing the chances that he’d pay attention to other betas – and you also counted on my ignorance of human nature to keep me from realizing John’s feelings. You were correct on the latter point. I didn’t. _He_ did.”

“She got the first point right too,” John inserted. “About me not paying attention to other betas. Or didn’t you ever wonder why I only brought megfriends home, never bettifriends?”

“Always something,” murmured Sherlock.

“So what’s the point of all this?” demanded Mary. “Is this your way of telling me you’re not going to carry my child after all? Bit late for that.”

It wasn’t until Sherlock straightened that John realized he hadn’t already been standing to his full height. Forget the gunfight images. Sherlock was a sword blade, long and slim and deadly.

“ _Not_ your child,” he pronounced. “The child you bear will be John’s and mine. I will carry it. _We_ will raise it. But _you_ will leave the UK after the child is born and never return. Mycroft’s granting you sanctuary in this flat for my sake. _This_ time – but never again.”

Mary’s jaw clenched and her eyes glistened, but she did not cry. “A child deserves to know who its birthmother is.”

“And we’ll tell it, John and I. When it’s grown. When it can make decisions as an adult. When it’s ready to read your pen drive.”

John blinked. He’d completely forgotten the bloody thing. Mary was holding both hands to her mouth, but Sherlock only added, “Or whatever the media of choice is eighteen years from now. I’ll transfer the data as necessary.”

“My...”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  

“ _Your_ child will know its birthmother was an assassin,” Mary whispered.

“An extremely skilled assassin.” Sherlock sounded almost – approving? “A clever woman who loved her husband more than she trusted him. And who risked her life and freedom to bring this child to John and me, to give it a chance to live. We’ll tell it the truth.”

Mary smiled wryly. “That sounds like both a promise and a threat.”

“It’s neither. It’s simply what our child deserves to know, once it’s old enough.”

Silence descended on the kitchen. Finally John broke it. “I’m putting the kettle on. Who wants tea?”

“Fill it with fresh water. Don’t use the water that’s already boiled,” ordered Sherlock, already hunting for a laptop in the living room.

“Would you mind leaving it by the bedroom door?” asked Mary. “I need to be alone for a bit.”

“Certainly.” John felt as there were something else he ought to be saying. “Mary...” he began, but then he couldn’t think of what it might be.

She smiled gently, unshed tears in her eyes. “Sherlock’s right, isn’t he? This all would have turned out very differently if I’d been able to trust you.”

“And Sherlock.”

“Yes, of course, Sherlock. Always Sherlock.” And she walked away. John heard the bedroom door close.

He turned to the sink, emptied the kettle and let the fresh water run in. Then, on a thought, he turned back to look at Sherlock. “Where did you find it?”

Sherlock didn’t bother looking up from the laptop. “Behind the dresser in the upstairs bedroom.”

“Have you looked at what’s on it?”

“Of course. Do you want me to tell you?”

John thought about it. “No,” he decided.

“Didn’t think so.”

***

John came back from (yet another) Tesco run that afternoon to be waylaid (once again) by Mrs Hudson the moment he got in the front door. This time, however, she came bearing a warning rather than food.

“I don’t like to pry, dear, but I couldn’t help noticing that there was a lot of yelling and door slamming yesterday – and not for the first time in recent months.”

“Sorry about that, Mrs...”

But Mrs Hudson rolled right over him. “You and Sherlock are certainly free to have guests, of course, but I _am_ your landlady and I ought to be told when someone’s going to be staying in the building for a while.”

Fuck. John took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “It came about unexpectedly and...”

“That said, I think what you and Sherlock are doing is very noble.”

John blinked. “You do?”

“Of course I do, dear! I’m an omega myself and it’s _awful_ , these young megs living on the streets and getting into trouble and having nowhere to turn. I just hope that you and Sherlock have thought this through completely. There’s such a risk of the child being born with an addiction or fetal alcohol syndrome or some such thing! Well, you’re a doctor, I’m sure you’ll know how to handle it. Do let me know if you’d like me to babysit. Not all the time, mind you, but I wouldn’t mind once in a while. And I _do_ have experience dealing with difficult children.”

Of course she did. She dealt with Sherlock all the time.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” said John with complete sincerity.

Then he fled upstairs.

“Mrs Hudson just offered to babysit ‘once in a while,’” he announced after closing the door to the flat.

Mary looked up from her book sharply. “She knows, then.”

Sherlock merely shrugged. “Mrs Hudson has her moments of intelligence.”

“She thinks the birthmother is one of your homeless network,” John told him.

“ _Brief_ moments.”

Mary chuckled. “Oi, don’t disrespect the potential babysitter! You’re going to need her.”

Sherlock ignored her. “I told you this would happen, John. Mrs Hudson did what people always do. She observed a bare fraction of the available details, made up a hypothesis and then instead of _testing_ her hypothesis, convinced herself it was the truth. You never had any real need to worry.”

“No, but Mary’s right. We’re definitely going to have a real need for a babysitter, so try not to piss off Mrs Hudson.”  

***

Thud. Thud. _Thud_.

“Wha’?”

“John, wake up and put some clothes on!”

Thud. _Thud_.

“Wha’the hell _is_ that?” John fumbled for his clothes.

“I sleep too soundly with you in my bed.”

John frowned. “Thought it was _our_ bed?”

“John, Mary’s _in labour_.”

John was suddenly wide awake.

Thudthudthudthud. _Thud_.

“Also, getting impatient.”

Sherlock explained as they ran down the stairs, both wearing T-shirts, with John in jeans and Sherlock in pyjama bottoms. “She and I built a warning device. I installed it for her.”

Inside the bedroom, Mary stood pulling repeatedly on a rope dangling from what appeared to be an over-sized door knocker – nailed to the ceiling.

“Took you long enough. John, will you check dilation?”

John pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves and had a look. “Twenty millimetres. That’s a good start.”

“Yeah, I’m more interested in a good end.”

Sherlock was laying out supplies and equipment. Box of nitrile gloves, medium. Box of nitrile gloves, extra large. Hand sanitizer. Scale. Measuring tape. Notebook and pen. Phone. Leather strap.

Leather strap?

“For Mary, to bite down on so she doesn’t scream,” explained Sherlock.

Mary frowned. “I’m not going to scream.”

“Sherlock, Mrs Hudson already knows there’s an omega giving birth up here. She _expects_ a bit of screaming.”

Sherlock looked sulky, but it was Mary who retorted, “Then Sherlock will have to provide it. I’m going to walk for a while. Could one of you change the sheets? I tried to make it out of bed before my water broke, didn’t quite manage.”

Sherlock, left to his own devices, would simply bin the sheets. “Sherlock, walk with Mary in case she needs support. I’ll take care of the sheets.” And get rid of the strap while he was at it.

***

Six hours later, the sun had risen and Mary was 48 mm dilated. She’d walked at least a mile by her own reckoning, although Sherlock claimed it was only 5,137 feet. She’d also had a warm bath, and they’d all had several cups of tea. John had put an end to Sherlock’s declarations of boredom by suggesting he play his violin. Mary had promptly vetoed lullabies. “I don’t want it to go to sleep. It can sleep later!”

“According to everything I’ve read,” Sherlock observed, “It’s your uterus that should be doing the work, not the child. Are you sure your uterus hasn’t gone to sleep?”

“Sherlock,” snarled John, “Shut up and play.”

Sherlock elected to play _Danse Macabre_.

***

Six and a half hours after Mary thumped on the ceiling, she asked, “What have you two come up with for names?”

Sherlock looked at John. John looked at Sherlock. Finally Sherlock offered, “William Sherlock Scott. At least one of those ought to do.”

John relaxed and nodded. “Yeah, okay. Are William and Scott people you know or just names you like?”

Sherlock shook his head. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes. That’s the whole of it.”

“William,” John repeated, trying out the sound of it. “Wait – _Billy_? Billy Holmes?” John’s nerves got the better of him and he started to giggle. “Does Wiggins know about this?”

“I’ve operated quite well without sexual attentions – including yours – for most of my life,” Sherlock said icily. “I can easily do so again.”

“Oooh,” quipped Mary, “Sounds like the sofa for you, John.”

But Sherlock wasn’t done. “And I’ve just decided to name the child Hamish.”

John stopped laughing. “You wouldn’t.”

“Watch me.”

Hamish. John didn’t have to be a genius to know how this would go. Every time they told someone the boy’s name, that person would coo and say how _unusual_ it was and ask how they came to choose that name. And Sherlock, the bastard, would smile and say, it’s his father’s middle name.

“Hamish William for a boy, then,” said Mary. “What if it’s a girl?”

Both men stared at her in shock. Finally Sherlock opened his mouth.

“And don’t try telling me that Sherlock is actually a girl’s name.”

Sherlock shut his mouth.

After a moment, he opened it again and suggested with uncharacteristic diffidence, “Cetacea?”

***

Seven and a quarter hours after Mary thumped on the ceiling, she began to grunt with each contraction. John and Sherlock helped her walk up and down the room until she indicated that she wanted to lie down.

The real pains began shortly afterwards, and Mary started cursing. She cursed John, no, the _hell_ with John bleeding Watson, she cursed _all_ alphas. She cursed the pregnancy kit manufacturer, Sherlock, Wiggins, Magnussen and Janine. The she started cursing people whom John didn’t know and was fairly sure he didn’t want to know, although he suspected Mycroft might have been interested.

When Mary cursed “whatever bloody fucking idiot thought up this arsehole method of getting bloody fucking children born,” Sherlock started to point out that the child wasn’t going to come out her ars... mmmph!

John had one hand firmly planted across Sherlock’s mouth and the other holding Sherlock’s arm behind his back, with Sherlock’s free arm pinned between them. Sherlock first tried to twist away and then tried to kick him. _Then_ he had the bright idea of wiggling the pinned arm free enough to make a grab for John’s balls. John lost his grip but landed a good kick on Sherlock’s shins. Sherlock tried the throw that had worked so well on George Jones. John sidestepped his hold and was going in for a head butt when the incipient brawl was interrupted by a blood-curdling scream from the bed.

Sherlock promptly abandoned the fight and threw himself into position between Mary’s legs, yelling, “My gloves, John, and quick! There’s not a moment to lose!”

As it turned out, there were a few moments yet. It was 7:21 AM – John recorded this – when the infant slid into Sherlock’s waiting hands, tiny, bald, red and indubitably female, with a clear brown pre-pouch spanning her abdomen. She waved her arms rhythmically, ancient instinct telling her she needed to climb to reach to the safety of the pouch.

Sherlock quickly weighed her (461 grams). Then he held her while John measured her length (28 cm) and took a photo of the miniature girl child cradled in Sherlock’s huge hands.

“Sherlock,” said Mary hoarsely. She’d pushed herself up on her arms.

“She needs the pouch,” Sherlock warned, but he held the infant so that Mary could see her, if only for a few seconds. Then he tucked his daughter into his pouch, arranging her so that her tiny mouth brushed a teat.

John signed the notebook page with the birth records.

And then they all looked at each other. Such an important event, so long-awaited, and now over, thought John. The birth’s over, a new life begins. But he didn’t say so, not with Mary lying there.

“We’re not calling her Cetacea,” he declared instead.

Sherlock drew himself up and looked belligerent, although the effect was somewhat spoiled by the fact that he kept stroking the outside of his pouch. “Cetaceans are intelligent,” he argued.

“So are lots of humans! Not as intelligent as you Holmeses, maybe, but...” But. Wait a moment. There was something...

“ _Complete flake, my wife, but she happens to be a genius._ ”

 _The Dynamics of Combustion_ , by M L Holmes.

“Sherlock,” said John, “What’s your birthmother’s full name?”

Sherlock started to smile. “Madeleine Virginie Lake Holmes. _Her_ birthmother was French.”

“ _Lake_ Holmes. She changed her name on marriage?” Betas usually did, but omegas more often kept their names and only took the title Mrs.

Sherlock’s smile flickered out. “My father was both somewhat old-fashioned and extremely forceful.”

A right bully, John figured that meant.

Sherlock turned to Mary. “The name Madeleine is derived from that of Mary Magdalene.”

“Oh!” said Mary. “You... Would you?”

“John, what’s _your_ birthmother’s name?”

“Gertrude. Sorry. But my carrymum’s name was Sophia.”

“Madeleine Sophia Watson-Holmes,” mused Sherlock. “No. Madeleine Sophia Holmes-Watson. The rhythm’s better.”

Mary giggled.

“No argument from me,” said John, grinning.

“Of course Lestrade will think we named her after the capital of Bulgaria,” Sherlock added – and then looked surprised when first John, then Mary started to laugh.

“It’s a funny thing,” said Mary once she’d calmed down a bit. “You can tell what primary gender children are at birth, but you’ve got to wait until they’re teenagers to find out the really important thing.”

Sherlock eyed her. “Define ‘really important.’”

“I don’t mean that betas shouldn’t be able to do all sorts of jobs,” Mary replied somewhat cautiously. “But there’s no arguing that they have a harder time than alphas and omegas. It’s an out-dated attitude, but not one that will change overnight.”

Sherlock bristled, but John said firmly, “Change starts with us. It starts with Sherlock and I sharing our daughter’s care, and there’s no limit to where it ends up. Now who’s for breakfast?”

“I am, as soon as I get cleaned up a bit,” replied Mary. “I feel as if I’ve had a workout!”

“There’s a reason the process is called ‘labour,’” John teased. “Sherlock, you should eat something.”

“Really, I’m fine – oh!” Sherlock looked suddenly startled and put one hand back on his pouch.

“What is it?” asked Mary.

John wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s waist. “Everything okay?”

“She’s nursing. My abdominal muscles are contracting. It feels as if... Actually, I can’t think of anything comparable.”

John laughed. “Come have some breakfast yourself, genius.”

***

“She’s lovely,” Mrs Holmes assured John after Madeleine’s birth photo had been passed around for the third time. Sherlock had refused to have the infant in his pouch disturbed unless absolutely necessary – “She’s not a peepshow! – and his carrymum had backed him. The two of them were now sitting shoulder to shoulder on the sofa, betas united.

When Mrs Holmes looked up from the photo and discovered John watching Sherlock and Mr Holmes, she leaned closer. “Sweet, aren’t they?” she whispered. “Timothy’s over the moon, but don’t tell him I told you.”

But Mr Holmes didn’t miss a trick and he wasn’t above teasing. “Maddy, what are you up to over there? I see you whispering in that handsome young alpha’s ear. He’s your son-in-law and don’t you forget it!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Well, this is all wonderful, but I have a flight to catch,” said Mrs Holmes, standing up and retrieving her suitcase. “Mary?”

Mary stepped forward from the kitchen. She’d been reluctant to join today’s family gathering. To John, it seemed as she been withdrawing – gradually detaching herself – for the past few days. It was for the best, but sometimes he found himself wishing that things could have been different.

Now she led Mrs Holmes into the bedroom she’d been using. The door shut behind them.

Sherlock’s face took an on expression that John had come to recognize. So apparently did Mr Holmes.

“Vigourous feeder, is she?” he asked with obvious approval.

John found himself feeling... superfluous. So he made tea.

***

The three men were just finishing their tea when the bedroom door opened and out came Mrs Holmes, followed by... Mrs Holmes.

Closer inspection revealed that the first Mrs Holmes was Mary, now wearing a wig, suitable make-up, the clothes Mrs Holmes had worn previously and some strategic padding. She was also carrying Mrs Holmes’ suitcase.

The real Mrs Holmes wore a similar outfit and carried an outdoor jacket and oversized purse, presumably taken out of the suitcase. “Timothy,” she announced, “You’re wife’s going to miss her flight if you don’t hurry along. Off you pop!”

Mr Holmes set down his cup and got to his feet. “May I take that for you?” he asked Mary, indicating the suitcase.

“Let him,” advised Sherlock from the sofa. “You need to walk out the door looking like my birthmother, and she’d never hesitate to accept his offer.”

“Right,” said Mary, and handed over the suitcase. “Thank you, sir.”

“Thank you, _Timothy_ ,” Sherlock corrected.

“Shut up, Sherlock, I _have_ done this sort of thing before,” Mary snapped – and then looked suddenly stricken. “Thank you. All of you. John, Sherlock, good luck with... with...”

Mrs Holmes patted her shoulder. “Don’t cry, dear, we don’t have time to redo your makeup.”

Mary sniffed once and then put her shoulders back. “Right,” she repeated, and walked out the door, followed by Mr Holmes with the suitcase.

John watched them go until Mrs Holmes asked him if there might be more tea. Gratefully, he set about making a fresh pot. “You bought the ticket in your own name,” he hazarded.

“Two tickets, for Timothy and myself. Just milk, thank you.” She took her previous seat in Sherlock’s chair. “Timothy had a bit of luck. There was a last-minute opening for an important but non-emergency medical procedure he’s been needing. Being the wonderful husband that he is, he’s insisted that his wife go ahead with her travel plans. He’ll join her later when he can. And of course, he’s going with her to the airport to explain all that at the boarding desk so that she doesn’t have any trouble. In fact, he’ll remain at the airport until the flight’s departed. Such a treasure, isn’t he?”

“No question,” replied John, amused despite himself. “Then he’ll be returning here?”

“Yes, to spend a quiet day with his son, son-in-law and granddaughter. I’m afraid that you have us as guests for at least the next nine hours.”

“The most difficult part of the plan,” Sherlock muttered quite audibly.

“Sherlock, don’t be like that. This _was_ your idea.”

“ _Some_ of it was my idea. Not this part.”

“You have to stay here long enough to give Mary a chance to turn into someone else,” John realized. “Someone other than Madeleine Holmes.”

“Precisely. Sherlock assured me that the young lady would be able to manage on her own once she was out of the UK.”

“Won’t Mycroft be able to figure out what you’re doing?”

“ _Mycroft_ knows better than to risk a public confrontation with either Timothy or myself,” Mrs Holmes said sternly. “We’ve provided him with reasonable grounds to claim that he was unaware of anything amiss. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll use them.”

“It would have been simpler to bribe him with a large cake instead,” Sherlock claimed.

“With minimal chances of success, dear. John, may I trouble you for another cup?”

“No trouble at all, ma’am.” John poured the tea, wondering just how much Mrs Holmes knew.

“ _Somebody’s put a bullet in my boy and if I ever find out whom, I shall turn absolutely monstrous_ ,” she’d said back at Christmas.

He turned back towards the living room to find two knowing pairs of silver-blue eyes watching him.

“Of course,” said Mrs Holmes composedly, “Timothy and I have our own reasons for wanting to see Mary Morstan out of the UK. And she’d better not return. Sherlock, be a dear and play for us. It’s been so long since I’ve heard you perform.”

***

Once Mr Holmes returned from the airport, the rest of the day passed uneventfully. After lunch, Mrs Holmes suggested with extreme firmness that John and Mr Holmes should go out for a walk.

“She wants you to ‘run him,’” explained Sherlock with a smirk.

Mr Holmes turned out to be a good walking companion who set a somewhat less strenuous pace than Sherlock. He and John talked about the same sorts of things that John and Lestrade talked about at the pub – sports, politics, the weather, the latest Bond flick and sports.

When they got back to the flat, they discovered Sherlock and Mrs Holmes immersed in a discussion of her latest project.

“The geniuses are at it again,” said Mr Holmes with a wink at John. He settled in with one of John’s novels and at some point in the afternoon, fell asleep over it.

John fielded a decent supper of baked chicken, jacket potatoes and a green salad. He took it as a compliment when Mrs Holmes exclaimed, “Thank god, at least one of you can cook!” She also made Sherlock help her wash up afterwards.

Finally at about eight in the evening, Mrs Holmes announced, “Mary should be clear by now. John, Sherlock, it was lovely to see you again.”

Relieved to see them go and feeling guilty because of it, John asked, “Will you be all right getting home at this hour? We do have a spare bedroom.”

“With a bed that’s too small for both of you,” Sherlock added promptly.

Mrs Holmes merely smiled. “Oh, no, after we bought the aeroplane tickets, I phoned a friend of mine who manages a hotel and asked him to set aside a room for us _without_ putting our names in the reservation records. We’ll be far more comfortable spending the night on our own.”

Mr Holmes helped her into her jacket. To John’s embarrassed surprise, she gave her husband a friendly pat on the backside before adding, “And I daresay so will you.”  

“But you haven’t got bags,” protested John. “Do you need, I dunno, toothbrushes or something?”

Mrs Holmes hefted her over-sized purse. “All in here, dear. Timothy, are we ready?”

“For you, always.” Mr Holmes held the door for her, then dropped John and Sherlock a wink before he closed it behind himself.

John blinked bemusedly. “Sherlock, did your parents just tell us they were spending the night in a hotel so that we could have sex?”

“No, so that _they_ could.” Sherlock stretched, posing a bit, and then added in a deeper voice, “Which doesn’t mean that we can’t follow their example.”

The way he stood emphasized the bump that Madeleine made on his abdomen. Suddenly, John was aware that they had the entire flat to themselves for the first time in _months_. Just him, his gorgeous husband-to-be and _their_ daughter. He licked his lips and then blushed, knowing that Sherlock had to have noticed the gesture.

Indeed Sherlock stalked forward until he was close enough to rub his baby bump against John’s stomach. Dizzy with desire, John pulled Sherlock’s head down for a kiss, neither short nor chaste.

“Want to reclaim our old room?” he asked softly when they finally came up for air.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “The sheets will still smell like Mary. We can swap the beds tomorrow. Tonight, hmmm” – he nuzzled John’s neck – “there are other things I’d rather be doing.”

They turned off the lights and went upstairs. Bright moonlight filled the small room. Sherlock stripped without bothering to draw the curtains, and the light made his pale skin glow. Long arms, long legs. Long lean body – and their daughter in his pouch.

John reached for him, but Sherlock stepped away. “You’re still over-dressed,” he pouted. “Or don’t you know yet that I enjoy looking at you too?”

Yes, John knew it, but hearing it _said_ made him shiver. He stripped as well, trying not to go too fast, trying to give Sherlock a bit of a show, and was rewarded by the sight of Sherlock’s erection jutting out beneath his baby bump.

“Is that for me?” John asked teasingly.

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” growled Sherlock. He stepped forward to meet John, their erections bumping and sliding together as they kissed again.

“Fuck me,” John breathed against Sherlock’s lips. “Will you fuck me?”

He’d never done this with anyone else. He’d never been with another alpha at all – he wasn’t _bent_ – and the male betas he’d dated occasionally had preferred to be the recipients. But Sherlock, who’d never been with anyone except John, was fearless and avid in his exploration of John’s body, giving and taking pleasure with a fierce generosity that took John’s breath away. He wanted John in exactly the same way as John wanted him: in any way that he could have him.

Now Sherlock led John the bed, rummaged in the nightstand for the lube. The first time they’d tried this, he’d used far too much lube. After an excess of preparation that had every hair on John’s body standing on end, he’d finally slid in – and promptly slid right back out.

But they’d gotten better at this, at everything really. John wanted the chance to get better yet. He wanted to pat Sherlock’s arse when he was eighty and embarrass their children. He wanted everything Sherlock was willing to give. The pleasure that Sherlock was giving him right this moment was just the beginning.

Pale marble in the moonlit room, Sherlock moved above and within John, filling him, centering him in _this_ moment, _this_ intimate space. John wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s waist, wanting him closer, as close as John could get him. Sherlock’s baby bump pushed against John’s cock with each gliding thrust even as he hit John’s prostate, over and over and _over_ , relentlessly, please _,_ never stop, _please_.

“Sherlock, oh. Sherlock, I’m... I’m close.”

Sherlock thrust faster then, not as precisely but harder, fiercer, driving them both on. John pushed back against him as they moved together. Always together.

Two voices cried out in the moonlight.

***

**One year later**

Lestrade eyed the baby carrier. “What’s it feel like, wearing that?” he asked John.

“It took a bit of getting used to, but I like being close to her. It feels as if we... know each other better, if that makes sense?”

“Completely. I’ve carried two – in my pouch, of course – and it’s like they’re part of you. I don’t think either of my spouses would have gone for wearing a carrier themselves, though.

“Yeah, well, if she was in Sherlock’s pouch right this minute she’d have her face inches away from a dead body.” Both men looked over to where Sherlock was deducing the corpse, then back at Madeleine, who appeared to be studying Lestrade in return.

“How’s the little lass?” Lestrade asked her.

She frowned and waved one fist.

“Got Sherlock’s toleration for small talk, I see. Is she sitting up on her own yet?”

“Sitting up, rolling over and doing quite the agile tummy creep. We’re looking for a real crawl any day now,” John reported proudly.

“After which nothing at ground level is safe.”

“Yeah, Sherlock and I have already had that talk. Once she starts crawling, walking’s not too far off. We may remodel 221C and relocate his lab there.”

“Not the room upstairs?”

“That’s going to be her bedroom some day. She still prefers Sherlock’s pouch for sleeping, but that won’t last. Besides, Sherlock and I, well...”

“Want your own bed to yourselves again? Yeah, I remember that feeling.” Lestrade chuckled. “If you don’t mind my asking, how are you handling nursing?”

“We tried using a teat pump, but Sherlock found it too awkward and uncomfortable.”

“Yeah?”

“Threw it across the room, actually. The dent’s still in the wall.”

Lestrade chuckled. “Sounds like a pretty definitive opinion. So he’s doing all the nursing?”

“Yeah, but I handle the mushy solids and soft finger foods. She’s a pretty adventurous eater. Every now and then she gets a bit...”

“Maaahhhhhh! Maaahhhhhh!” said Madeleine. Up until now she’d been reasonably content. Now she started to screw up her face and kick. Hard.

“Squally,” John finished ruefully.

Lestrade was grinning. “Jinxed yourself there, mate.”

A few yards away, Sherlock stood up with a look on his face very like Madeleine’s and started to walk towards them. “Looks like storm clouds on both fronts,” said John, trying and failing to interest his daughter in a dummy.

Lestrade met Sherlock midway. “Find anything?”

“Nothing _interesting_. You called me _and_ my family out for a case of untreated anaphylaxis. Find out who the deceased’s GP was, get a list of known allergies and compare it to her stomach contents. She tried a new place today for her mid-morning latte and scone. Either she forgot to ask about ingredients – which is unlikely, she was attentive to her own medical issues to the point of hypochondria – or the server failed to give her complete information. In any event, _boring_.   John, Madeleine needs a teat, not a dummy.”

“I was making do while you solved the case,” John retorted as he handed Madeleine over.

“There was no case, it was death by incompetence.” Sherlock turned away slightly as he hiked his nursing tunic up a bit to slip Madeleine into his pouch.

“See? I knew it wouldn’t take you long.” John couldn’t deny that he was enjoying the view. Sherlock’s close-fitting nursing tunics gave him the look of an exotic prince. John particularly liked this one, a deep purple satin. He wondered if Sherlock might be persuaded to wear it from time to time even after Madeleine was weaned and Sherlock could go back to shirts that tucked into his trousers.

Lestrade, who hadn’t missed anything, caught John’s eye and winked even as he gave instructions to the rest of his team.

As John walked away from the scene with Sherlock and Madeleine, he remembered walking away from another crime scene. Seemed like a long time ago now.

“You’re smiling... Ah, nostalgia,” observed Sherlock.

John felt his smile stretch wider. “Want to go check some door handles on restaurants?”

“Hmmm. It’s a tempting offer, but... no.”

“No?” John affected disappointment.

“No.” And Sherlock smiled like a flower opening. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather we took _our_ daughter home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go to:
> 
> jinglebell because her [_Riptide Lover_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2312978/chapters/5090789) got me thinking about male seahorses, even though I ended writing about marsupial mammals instead.
> 
> fresne for ringing the changes on family and social structures in an alpha/beta/omega world in her [_Phrygian Choices_](http://archiveofourown.org/series/22231%0A) series
> 
> My Grade 10 biology teacher for showing the class a film in which a new born joey about the size and shape of a jelly bean hauled itself up the vast expanse of its kangaroo mother’s belly to the safety of her pouch. I sat perched on the edge of my seat, terrified but unable to either look away or breathe, until the joey vanished into the pouch. What if Mumma ‘Roo had sneezed? Or been startled? What if a strong wind had kicked up at the wrong moment? It was a traumatic experience – and one that instilled in me a huge respect for the tenacity of life.


End file.
